The Sound of Silence
by Sachita
Summary: Their love had ever been like a series of violent clashes, fuelled by a burning desire. A gnawing hunger within, a restless longing for that one thing they couldn't have, and they both knew it. A tale of a knight and his love for her-Isolde. Finished!
1. Prologue

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_This is a story about Arthur's scout and his love for one woman: Isolde._

_ Since I am no native speaker, I would very much appreciate it, if you could tell me about my spelling or grammar mistakes._

_This is a revised version of the prologue, and I intend to revise all of the earlier chapters. No big changes in the content, just some improvements here and there. _

_Please be kind and don't look too closely at the mistakes or at the chapters which haven't been revised yet. This is the first story I wrote in English, years ago. Mostly, I was experimenting, seeing that I am no native speaker. I hope, however, that my English has gotten better over the years^^. So now: enjoy! (=_

_-Sachita_

_Disclaimer : The movie King Arthur is owned by Jerry Bruckheimer. No copyright infringement intended._

* * *

**Prologue**

*****  
**

The harsh November winds hurled twigs and leaves against the proud Hadrian's wall, a monument built by the Romans for the defence of their gigantic Empire.

Little, warped houses clung desperately to the wall in little gatherings, like infants to their mother's bosom, their inhabitants deeming the wall as a protection against the ferocious Woads, the native inhabitants of the isle, who did everything to break the Roman grip on it, in the process killing not only the Romans themselves, but also those, who followed them.

A winding, small path, that started somewhere at a windy part of the British Coast, crawled along this wall for hundreds of miles, eventually ending in front of a Roman fort, the last outpost of the Roman military.

It was the year 463 AD and Rome was slowly losing power, struggling like an aged giant, who was slowly being sapped of his strength by both external force and internal deterioration, while still clinging desperately to vestiges of its former glory.

Effects of this struggle were already visible on the windy island, too, but not in this fort.

This fort was the post of fearsome warriors, dark, fierce figures whose home was thousands of miles away, on the grassy, rolling plains of a land called Sarmatia.

These Sarmatian warriors, known to all of the island's people as Arthur's knights, were both the fear and envy of Rome's legionnaires stationed in Britain, they were legends, whispered about at campfires and feared among their enemies.

But their loyalty belonged only to one man. Artorius Castus, a man both of British and Roman descent, a Roman commander, who had earned the respect, trust and most importantly friendship of the Sarmatian Riders, who did not give these easily, especially to one, who represented the very Empire, which had taken their freedom away and bound them to it for a service of fifteen brutal and long years. But to Arthur, they were loyal.

He was a man of great honour and discipline, even the Woads respected him as a fair and worthy opponent and his knights would have given their lives for him.

But nothing is ever constant, and the number of the Sarmatians dwindled over the years.

Fourty young boys had been wrenched from their mothers' arms and had been brought to this island. After eleven served years, sixteen remained, the others had been taken from them by either sickness or death, the latter often at the hands of the Woads, so it was no wonder, that the hatred of the Sarmatians for these blue warriors ran deep in their veins.

They didn't despise them for their cause, because they could understand the longing for freedom, but they hated them for taking away more and more pieces of their home, as more and more knights fell.

***

The remaining knights were all unique in their character, often equipped with very distinctive character traits. Their favourite place, if there was a favourite place for them on this island, was the tavern, run by a fiery, red-headed woman with eyes the colour of Britain's mossy plains, as she was a native of the country herself. Her lover, however, was one of the aforementioned knights, a loud, boisterous man called Bors, whose best friend was the gentle Dagonet, a giant man with a kind heart.

Then of course, there was Lancelot, Arthur's loyal second. A complex character, who was renowned for his skill with his twin swords and his ability to charm all women both.

He often clashed with the clumsy Kay. Kay, a short, roundish man infuriated the fiery knight with his slow wit and his uncanny ability to stumble across him to the most inconvenient times, namely when Lancelot had company of the female sort.

The one who had to calm the waters after one of Lancelot's violent outbursts was almost always Percival. The fair-haired Percival was a bard and also renowned for being always honest. This often led to teasing, that he had clearly chosen the wrong profession, but he silenced the taunters always with one of his serene smiles.

Gawain, whose long, tangled golden hair was the secret envy of many women, was a calmer fellow too, but as fierce in battle as any of them.

Young Galahad, whom he had taken under his wing, was the most rebellious of them , constantly questioning everything, which made even Arthur lose his temper sometimes.

Then, there was Bedivere, Percival's cousin and the knight's complete opposite in actions and words, the callous Iwain, who was brutal to the point of madness; the cheerful Geraint, who had always known what to say whenever one of them fell into a gloomy mood; Gareth and Gaheris who were Gawain's brothers; the perpetually depressed Melan, the handsome Erec who held much sadness in his heart, and the quiet Hermann.

***

But there was another one. One, who probably knew his brothers in arms better than they knew themselves.

His name was Tristan, but among the Romans he was mostly referred to as Arthur's scout, not that he minded this, in fact, he didn't care.

Especially Galahad had taken a dislike to Tristan, because he couldn't understand him.

But understanding Tristan was an impossible task for any of the knights, even after so many years of knowing him. He was a loner, often days and weeks alone in the forests of Britain, scouting for Arthur, which was a task that he performed with accurateness and excellence.

But it was not as if he would have tried to break his self-imposed loneliness, in fact, he seemed to be content with it.

No one knew the island like Tristan did, no one knew the Woads like this man.

His bearing on the battlefield was merciless and Galahad swore, that there was a glint of pleasure in his eyes whenever he stroke an opponent down. Tristan never objected.

But he wasn't regarded with contempt, like Iwain, who sometimes resembled an animal in his bloodlust. He was an enigma, yes, but they held him in high regard and tolerated his quiet ways with the affection, that only brothers can have for each other.

Tristan's calm was only broken sometimes, but when it was, the outbursts were more violent than those of all knights combined and they dreaded his black temper.

Currently, the Sarmatian scout was standing on the walltop, tending to his hawk, a proud, free untamed creature, what might as well have been a description of Tristan himself. Tristan was a man with many layers, and he only allowed the others to see as much of him as he wanted. But Tristan was no island either and neither did he have everything under control. Some things just happen.

And it was Tristan on that stormy November day, who saw the exhausted rider coming up the small path first, Tristan, who brought him to Arthur and Tristan, who wasn't surprised in the least, when Arthur summoned a quick meeting, stating in hurried form, that the rider brought news of Roman settlements along the coast, which were being attacked by small groups of Saxon raiders, foes, who spared no one.

These Roman settlements asked for help. Their help.

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	2. Grey skies

_Thank you for your great reviews,** Addicted2LancelotAndTristan** and **Priestess of the Myrmidon**__!_

_Again, this is the new version of chapter one. The revised version of chapter two should be up in a few days.  
_

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters mentioned, except original ones.  
_

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**2. Grey Skies**

*****  
**

Grey fog clung to the grassy clearing. There was no sound in the air, save for the occasional chirp of a bird. But slowly, a moist wind came up and along with it came the sound of riders.

They broke out of the fog then; shadowy, dark horsemen, only to disappear in another wall of that fathomless grey mist, that enveloped them like the embrace of a harsh lover. The wild chase finally brought them to the edge of the woods and into the relative warmth of the sun. Lancelot shuddered slightly, when he looked back to the grey mass they had just emerged from.

"I hate this weather," he grumbled, annoyed. "If it isn't raining, it's snowing. Or storming. And when there is neither rain, nor snow, nor storm, then there is this impenetrable mist."

To his surprise, it was Tristan, whom the strange atmosphere in the fog obviously hadn't fazed in the slightest, who replied to his bland statement impassively:

"You can complain about it for an eternity. It won't change."

"Yeah, you hear that?" Bors grinned. "It won't change and we've been here for eleven years. One might think that you'd have become used to it by now, Lance."

"Oh, leave it, all of you." Lancelot scowled, his mood dark.

"Tristan," Arthur called.

Tristan rode up to him.

"I would like you to ride ahead now to ensure that there are no ambushes or enemy activities in this direction. Return when you deem it right."

Tristan only nodded and his hair obscured his eyes. Then a sharp wind came up, blowing his hair out of his face and allowing a glimpse into sharp amber eyes emphasized by high cheekbones.

Arthur stared at him, feeling how a strange feeling of foreboding overcame him. Tristan still waited, impassively.

Arthur knew that the scout was aware that he wasn't finished yet.

"Tristan," he said finally, not able to put the strange feeling in words.

"Be careful."

Tristan's hand holding the reins twitched, a sure sign for Arthur that the independent scout wished to go now, however, the Sarmatian evenly replied in his thick accent:  
"Do not worry. We have had Saxons on the island often enough."

"Yeah," Gaheris said, "but we know they are violent and they don't spare anyone."

Tristan slowly turned his head to look at him, annoyance now clearly visible on his features.

"I'll be careful." With that and a last nod of farewell to Arthur, he was gone, dark cape flying behind him, the hawk flying over him.

When he had disappeared, Galahad shook his head. "Stubborn fool."

Bors laughed: "Make sure that he doesn't hear ya talkin' this way. He'd skin ya alive."

Arthur, however, was silent, troubled thoughts chasing over his face like clouds.

He had a bad feeling about all this.

***

The horse's hooves pounded on the ground eagerly, as Tristan covered miles and miles of ground. He kept a careful eye on everything.

Something caught his eye and he quickly drew in the reins.

"Hush, _Byaczt_" he whispered to his horse. The horse raised its ears and snorted softly.

Tristan looked at the ground. Footprints. A piece of leather. Fresh earth.

They were close.

He quickly mounted Byaczt again, the hawk flapping on his arm.

The sound of twigs breaking alerted him and he scanned his surroundings with keen eyes.

There! Two flashes of brown in a tree. An arrow took care of these flashes and soon a Saxon was lying in front of him, dead. Tristan looked at him in distaste, recognising him to be a scout. There was the unmistakable sound of a hitched breath on a tree next to him and a second arrow took care of the other Saxon. It was a young one, who had probably frozen up, when he had killed the older one. Tristan sighed in disgust, he hated when they were young like that. It always made him feel as if he was killing children like Bors's herd of bastards.

He quickly dismissed the thought and performed a search of the little clearing, but even Tristan made mistakes sometimes.

And so it came that he failed to see the third Saxon, who had disappeared quickly back into the woods, to inform his commander of Tristan's arrival.

Meanwhile, Tristan lowered his bow and for a second a weary expression flitted over his face.

He was weary, exhausted more, not in body, but in spirit.

He was a lone hawk, a silent savage, and he knew it, but despite the blood sticking to his skin- it always did, even when there was none visible- they all didn't know the whole truth.

And he would never permit them to see it.

**

"What did you say? A rider?"

"Ja," the scout answered to the unspoken query. "It's like you think, mîn Her. A Sarmatian killed Sighard and Hunwald."

"Ah," the Saxon Leader grumbled, stroking his beard. "That is partly good news, Wulfric. You may go now."

The scout bowed and turned away.

"Wulfric!"

He turned around. "Yes?"

"Send Hengist to me and tell his men to ready themselves for a hunt."

The scout allowed himself a smirk, showing yellow teeth. "As you wish, mîn Her."

***

A screech owl was, what alerted him.

Byaczt neighed anxiously.

Tristan patted his neck and his eyes took in his surroundings. He was on a ravine, surrounded by steep hillsides. It was a trap, but maybe they hadn't seen him yet.

He urged Byaczt in a sharp gallop, only to be forced to take a tight grip on the reins, for Byaczt reared up, when they were faced with a herd of Saxons, whose speers glinted menacingly in the midday sun.

Byaczt reared up again and Tristan turned him sharply around on a mad chase in the other direction, but it was too late.

Saxons were already closing up on him from the other side.

He drew Byaczt in by the reins and whistled for his hawk, who promptly appeared at his side.

"Fly my friend, fly and warn Arthur," he mumbled quietly to the majestic bird, throwing her in the air and allowing himself a brief moment of longing as she spread her wings and flew away.

Then he dismounted and drew his scimitar from its scabbard, swinging it in a deadly circle, daring the Saxons to approach him.

And approach they did, though they seemed hesitant. With a feral smirk, Tristan ended the first Saxon's life. But there's only so much one man alone can take, and Tristan couldn't keep his eyes on all of the Saxons. So it came that he didn't see the large shadow loom up behind him. Pain flared up in his head and he dropped his sword, trying his best to stay standing, but it was a futile battle and he sank to his knees, while the red haze in front of his eyes slowly transformed into cold darkness and he still struggled while he sank in its arms.

***

Lancelot wasn't sure what had compelled him to stop his valiant stallion to look up in the bright sky. The sun hurt his eyes and he shaded them, peeking through his fingers.

"What is it, Lancelot?" Arthur and his comrades had stopped as well.

"I don't know," he replied, then cried out in surprised pain, as a quick shadow swooped down from the sky and sharp talons sank into his shoulder.

"Damned bird," he gasped sharply.

Tristan's hawk croaked, a harsh sound and abruptly flew up again, flapping her wings and hovering on the strong eastern wind just above the heads of the knights.

"We won't hurt you, hawk," Dagonet called softly.

The hawk inclined her head, sharp yellow eyes eyeing them. Then she abruptly flew to Arthur, hovering in front of him, unsettling Arthur's proud steed, which promptly started prancing.

"What is the matter with you, bird?" Percival asked.

The hawk screeched, stayed at a certain spot, flew abruptly up again and returned to said spot.

"It wants us to follow it," Gawain murmured suddenly. The other knights threw startled looks his way, but it was Arthur, who said: "I think you are right. Let's go."

Anxiety gripped them as they followed the hawk deeper in the forest, passing murmuring streams and solemn oak trees, paying no heed to potential Woad threats.

Geraint's horse unexpectedly threw its head up, neighing. A loud whinny answered and a grayish horse bolted into view, clearly terrified, foam flocks around its mouth.

Tristan's horse.

"Hush," Galahad soothed, dismounting and holding his hands up. Arthur watched in awe as the youngest knight was able to calm the horse, an ability that all of his Sarmatians seemed to have.

"Hush, Byaczt," Galahad stroked Byaczt's snout.

"Where is your Master, huh?" Sharp talons clawed at his hair abruptly, suggesting that they were wasting too much time in the hawk's opinion.

Bors gave a half-hearted snort at Galahad's disgruntled expression, but he was far too worried for a real laugh. That would have to wait until they found Tristan.

It wasn't too long until they reached the grassy clearing.

Slain Saxons awaited them, often wounded at their midsection, a trademark sign of Tristan.

Bors, who was fuming, grabbed a still writhing Saxon by the collar, wrenching him up and screaming at him:

"Where is our comrade? What did you do to the man, who passed through here on this horse?"

The man's eyes widened, he was terrified of Bors.

"Please, no, he …he….we…one of our spies…told us…he would….ar-rive. He was a devil, killed….many of..us. Don't recall….anything else….think…they took him…with them. Left…me…here…to …die."

He choked and his eyes glazed over, forever mirroring the passing clouds.

"Bors." Arthur put a hand on his arm. "He is dead."

Bors quivered with fury. "I know," he snarled. "Probably, so is Tristan."

A harsh, surprised sound came from Gareth and they turned around to him.

"Tristan's dagger," he said, holding the aforementioned weapon up. It was encrusted with blood.

"He's put up a hell of a fight," Bors said, sounding proud.

"Let's go before it is too late!" Dagonet had spoken up, a harsh light in his eyes. Gone was his usual gentle disposition, leaving room for a merciless knight with no intention to spare anyone.

"Yes," Iwain hissed, his eyes flaming up in irate anger. "Let us slay Saxons."

But they were too late. After little more than an hour of following the good visible trail of the Saxons they arrived at the coast, where the foot prints ended suddenly.

Lancelot raised his eyes and thought to see a white sail, which was blending in with the horizon. Mutely, he raised his arm.

When the other knights followed his eyes, the same hopeless thought haunted their anxious minds: Tristan was out of their reach now.

"Damn it, " Bors cursed and kicked a piece of driftwood away. "Damn it!"

Gawain stared at the horizon, disbelief etched on his features. He was wrenched out of his stupor by Galahad's passionate voice: "He is not dead! He will return!"

Gawain spun around, eyes flashing. "Shut your mouth Galahad! Do not speak of things you do not know of!"

It was not often, that he spoke to the young knight this way, and visibly hurt, Galahad turned away.

"He is dead," Iwain said dispassionately, fingering his dagger.

"Oh. It's not as if you would bloody care!" Bedivere shouted, lunging at him, only held back by Percival's arm. "You do not care!"

"Iwain, find us a place to stay for the night," Arthur said wearily, casting a meaninful glare at Bedivere. "And you Bedivere, calm down."

Iwain's blue, icy eyes flashed , but he gave a simple nod to Arthur's request, disappearing in the approaching dawn.

Arthur simply gave them another exhausted look, which made the fiery Sarmatians instantly look guilty and ordered them to sit up.

***

Later, they sat around a campfire, gloom and sadness hanging in the air.

Not even Geraint's little jokes could have chased the feelings of emptiness away, not as if he would have tried.

"He was a good man," Bors said finally, breaking the silence.

"One of us," Gaheris agreed.

"Why do you all speak of him in the past?" Galahad sounded incredulous.

"We have no proof at all that he is dead!"

But the others simply looked at him wearily and it was a sign of this bone-deep weariness, that they felt, that Gawain ordered, without looking at him:

"Sit down, Galahad."

In the distance, the hopeless screech of a hawk sounded.

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	3. First Encounters

_This is chapter two; the revised version of it at least. Here I would like to thank Priestess of the Myrmidon for her help with the previous version of it. Thank you!_

_Plus, thank you so much for the reviews you left. I am always happy about them!  
_

_I hope you like this new version, too. _

_Sachita^^  
_

* * *

**3. First Encounters**

*****  
**

Pain. It was crawling through his veins, enveloping him, before he had even opened his eyes.

He moved his tongue over his cracked lips.

A tangy, sharp taste, but it was neither the coppery taste of blood, nor the wet, harsh taste of earth. Sea spray.

A ship, moving through the waves like a dragon of old, conquering wind and water.

Slowly, the man's hand moved. A slimy, wooden underground.

Planks. He was lying on planks.

He gasped for air and slowly opened his eyes. Through the bangs obscuring his eyes, he could see the sky. White clouds moving like thoughtless deer through infinity.

Tediously, he tried to sit up, but failed instantly, as a searing pain shot through his entire body, setting it aflame. His head pounded, his right leg burned like fire and his back didn't feel much better.

Black dots danced in front of his eyes, as he fell back on the planks.

It was minutes later, that felt to him like half an eternity, when he was able to move again.

This time he did it more cautiously. He tried to move his feet, but discovered to his dismay, that they were bound.

However, his arms weren't and so he frantically moved around, trying to get a grip on something solid.

***

Suddenly, a cruel face with yellowed eyes and a weathered appearance obscured his vision, long, tangled hair falling into his eyes. A Saxon. He quickly turned his head away.

"Warner!" The Saxon yelled, still mere inches away from his face and the captured man winced inwardly. "Warner!"

He couldn't see Warner, but he now heard his voice, speaking to the other Saxon in heavily-accented Latin, so he could understand him.

"Bring the prisoner into an upright position. I want to see his face when talking to him."

The Saxon obliged, leaning the man against the wooden railing, but he wasn't gentle, and the pain became so intense, that he gasped faintly. The Saxons laughed at this humiliation.

Then he could finally see Warner. He was a large man with rough features, a beard and long, braided hair, as it was the Saxons' habit. He eyed the helpless man in front of him over his crooked nose and smiled, a smile that didn't reach his cold, grey eyes.

"What do we have here now…Arthur's eyes, or so I have heard from someone who was a little less pugnacious than you are, and even volunteered information so we would spare his petty life…" The Saxon spit in the stormy sea. "I hate traitors!" he informed his prisoner with a low voice. "But you are no traitor, are you? You would rather die, than volunteer information…" He turned away, waiting for a wort of protest, the prisoner's gaze following him defiantly.

Abruptly he spun around, thundering: "But think well about this! We will kill you, and I will take personal pleasure in killing one of the legendary Sarmatian _bastards_!"

Emotionless amber eyes stared back at him.

"My name is Tristan. Remember that, Saxon. I might not be able to fight you now, as you captured me in an inequitable fight, but you are going to lie helpless in front of me one day, so, keep my name in mind."

Tristan's voice was filled with a deadly tranquility and after he had spoken, he said no more, just kept staring in the eyes of Warner.

The Saxon looked hesitant, even unsure for a moment, then he covered it up by slapping the Sarmatian hard across the face, laughing, a low, unpleasant sound, before he turned away.

Tristan spit out blood and smirked to himself. He knew who had won this battle.

* * *

After hours of waiting, night was finally falling. Tristan's ankles were raw, as were his wrists, which had been clumsily bound to two of the tips of the ship's ribs, that ended just a bit over the railing itself , so he was sitting there with stretched-out arms. He chafed the leather straps for hours and hours against the wooden stakes with a desperate sort of certainty, that he would get out. He just needed a bit more…only a bit. A little, little bit.

And so he gritted his teeth and tried to keep from crying out in pain as much as possible.

But when the first hesitant fingers of morrow touched down on the sea, Tristan had managed to free one hand.

Quickly he freed his other hand, grunting in pain when he worked the leather bindings around his ankles off with stiff fingers.

That took him the better part of an hour, and when he was finally finished, the rosy hues of dawn had made way for the splendid radiance of the morning sun.

It was so bright, that he quickly had to turn his eyes away again.

The Saxons were all sleeping, due to an overindulgence of Roman wine, that they had most likely obtained on one of their raids. Tristan was rather glad for that, but he knew that he still had to avoid the gaze of the sentry and the helmsman, the former who stood at the stern of the ship and the latter, who had his post somewhere at the stern

Tristan himself was situated at…he couldn't have said. Somewhere between the banks of oars and the stern, he supposed.

Slowly he turned his head, looking for his weapons. His body was weakened and exhausted.

Finally he spotted them.

The Scout had to crawl. He felt humiliated, but at the same time he knew it was an advantage, since the Guards couldn't see him that way.

The pain shot through his body in great waves, mirroring the stormy countenance of the sea.

Tristan grimaced as he saw his daggers and his most prized possession, the long curved blade, lying carelessly next to a snoring Saxon, a very ugly man with red hair and an equally red nose.

Carefully, Tristan crawled over to him and put the daggers back to the right places in his armour. He counted them. One was missing. In slight irritation, he sheated the sword and turned back to the sleeper. He was close to crying out in incredulous, exhausted desperation when he spotted that same, ugly Saxon lying eagle-spread on his bow.

Silently he took his knife, slitting the man's throat without a second thought. What had to be done, was done without remorse. He grabbed the bow.

Now, when he had obtained his personal possessions, he sat there, next to the corpse, feeling insecure, not knowing what to do now, feeling how reason eluded him and slid out of his grasp.

Tediously he struggled to his feet. Unfortunately, his sudden move alerted the guard, who cried out in wordless alarm.

Tristan backed away quickly, but he couldn't go any further. There was the railing and behind it the grey, sparkly waves of the sea.

Surrounded by enemies and fighting them all was not a choice. Neither was dying a martyr's death. Tristan had never supported that notion anyway, martyrdom was a foreign idea to him.

But then he spotted an oar, which lay next to him and reason came to him once again, or maybe it was the stupidest idea he had ever had in his entire life. He wasn't so sure.

He held onto the oar and climbed over the railing, holding on for a moment to the ship, before he braced himself and jumped, or rather fell into the sea.

The impact forced the air out of his lungs and made him black out for a few seconds.

Back on the ships, the Saxons appeared, aiming their bows at him.

However, they lowered their bows again. Tristan felt confused, when they jumped out of his sight. Shortly after, the oars began to move in a constant rhythm.

What the scout couldn't have seen, was, that the white sail of a Roman warship had appeared on the horizon, but if he had seen it, he would no doubt have had a cynical smirk ready for the fact, that it was of all things a Roman ship, that had saved him.

But Tristan was otherwise engaged at the moment. His strength was slowly fading and through bruised, slitted eyes he peered at the still-radiant sun, holding on to the oar.

His body was submerged in the seawater and the salt bit his wounds like an irate sea devil.

Warily, he tried to lift his whole body on the oar, but it wouldn't carry him, and for a long, panicked moment, he lost his balance and almost his grip on the rough wood in the process.

Exhausted, he resumed his previous position and closed his eyes, the sunlight that he had welcomed not minutes- or were it hours?- ago, now irritating the bruises around his eyes and dehydrating his body. Black spheres hushed over the water. Irritated, Tristan shook his head.

The sun was already making him see things. He closed his eyes, blinked, irritated.

He managed to keep his mind focused for some minutes, then his thoughts began to wander dangerously. The water was around his legs, pulling him down.

***

He remembered almost drowning in a river back home. He had been playing with some friends. They had been racing along the riverside, shoving each other around.

Suddenly he had slipped, loosing his footing and falling head-first in the river.

The first thing he had noticed had been the cold, and the blackness. Like invisible arms, they had pulled at him, taking him down with them. He had sunk like a stone to the ground. There was only a lazy pull of the river's current and for the first moments it hadn't even occurred to him to fight the river. He remembered staring motionless with opened eyes in the strangely comforting blackness that had surrounded him and thinking that he could stay like this forever. There was the presence of something else beside him down here and he knew that it had to be the _tyiernok_, the water spirits, his mother had always told him about.

But then his lungs had reminded him of the need for fresh air and he had started to struggle, but the river didn't want to let him go. He had tried to plead with the water spirits, but only translucent bubbles had come from his mouth. He remembered staring after them as they rose to the surface, trying to follow. But the weeds had been merciless, tangled around his feet, keeping him on the ground.

Then strong arms pulled him back to the surface, freeing his feet. He remembered clinging half-unconscious to the wet skirts of his mother, who had been the one to save him.

She had sobbed in relief and horror, the first and the last time that he had ever seen her cry.

Tahiyyah, his mother had been a strong woman- as skilled as a man with a bow and as fierce and feral as any of the other Sarmatian warriors, but she had one weakness, and this weakness were her children. She had given birth to two healthy children after giving her heart to a proud Sarmatian warrior, Tristan's father.

Tristan had sat wrapped in mutiple furs at the fire that day, when his mother had sat down next to him, her long black hair obscuring her face.

"_Na_," he had said and she had looked up. "_Na_; I saw the water spirits today."

She had nodded and had looked as if she might start crying again. "I know you did, my son.

But please, remember one thing, my son." He had stared at her, not knowing what she was trying to tell him. She had come closer, putting a hand on his heart.

"Remember my son, no matter how many you will kill- and I know you will kill many," she had added as an afterthought, pride colouring her words, "please, think of my words: Do not let the light in your heart die. Ever. Please, promise me that."

He had nodded, because, well, she was his mother and his mother had always known what was best for him. The children, however, had avoided him from that day on. They had thought that he was uncanny for staying under water for so long. But they couldn't understand. They hadn't seen the water spirits.

Only two years later, some drunk Roman rogues had killed Tahiyyah, the proud warrior woman, while she had been in search of his little sister, who had thoughtlessly wandered out in the steppe and also his little sister in the process.

His father had been lost the day after that, when he, mad with grief and dark anger, chased after the Romans, killing two, before they killed him.

He had followed, his father on Byaczt, who had already been his then, hot anger and wild grief compelling him to do so, but he had only found his dead father. He had taken him back to the village and after the proper burial and the mourning time, the Romans had come to take him with them. _Nothing for me left here._

He had sat motionlessly on his steed and he had come with them, never once looking back.

The taste of salt assaulted the man's tongue again and his eyes slowly opened.

Everything blurred and in vain, he strengthened his weak grip on the salt-encrusted wood.

Stay awake, something inside of him chanted. Stay awake. Stay awake…stay awake…

But his inward voice just didn't want to listen to what reason already knew.

He wasn't going to survive this. Already he could feel how darkness invaded his soul and he knew, that it was going to be an eternal silence, a never-ending darkness. The water spirits had won. He was going to die here.

_I am sorry, mother, I failed you._ Then he plunged into darkness.

* * *

A lone bird sat on a stone, preening its feathers. A slight sound started to come nearer and the bird cocked its proud head, waiting for a second. When the sound and the slight vibrations came nearer, it twittered in alarm and flew off to hide in the birch forest nearby.

The sound continued to grow louder, however, and after a while, it could be recognised as singing. A young woman's singing.

Her voice was not overly astonishing, but it held a quiet, lovely quality to it, that made it hard not to listen. She came into view then, a petite, small Lady with dark hair and light eyes, who might have seen ninteen, twenty summers at the most.

The hem of her simple linen dress caught on some root in the sandy ground and she ceased singing, bending down to disentangle it.

A few strands of her long, slightly curled hair fell into her face as she straightened up, and with a small, irritated sound she pushed it back.

With a tired sigh she walked past the last birch trees and finally saw the sea in all its glory stretching out to infinite horizons in front of her.

With a slight, childish giggle, she hastened to the white shore, laughing in delight, when the first inkling of the fresh sea breeze assaulted her and made her hair dance.

"I know that I shouldn't be out here," she informed the waves with a merry voice.

"But why should I listen to anything my father tells me?"

Her expression grew abruptly dark, showing the woman, that she already was, despite all her abrupt, playful moods. When she thought of her father, a glint of pure loathing came into her eyes, making the green eyes blaze with a dark fire.

She, Isolde, was a Gallic Princess. Princess meaning here, that her father was the chief of the remaining tribe of the Morini, who had gathered on a meagre stretch of land, compared to the widths, they had used to traverse in earlier times.

But they were forced to stay here. The Roman forces had driven them here, and even though, there was a kind of unsteady armistice between them and the Gauls, there was still fierce fighting going on ever now and then. Many had been killed already with many more to come.

Isolde's heart broke every time her people were diminished, but she was powerless.

Plus, she really shouldn't be out here, her inward voice, which sounded suspiciously like her old nursemaid, reprimanded her.

"I know," she said loudly and enjoyed how the words echoed in the silence.

It was unreasonable, she knew that, really, she did. But oh- how she yearned to be free!

How she longed to break out of the confined space, how she wanted to be independent.  
Ride over the meadows and through the wild forests!

No Roman Lady would ever be allowed to fight, oh, she was sure of that!

But she, as a Gallic Princess wasn't allowed either, she realised piteously. While there were women, who were allowed to fight, she wasn't one of them, being the Princess.

"_Oh, thank Toutates,"_ was what Branwaine, her old friend, always said, referring to a Gallic god, when she heard of Isolde's desires. _"Thank Toutates that you may not fight!"_

Isolde laughed slightly, when she thought of her friend. But now…she looked at the sun's position…it was really time to head back. It wasn't that long a way, but she should be back before nightfall.

Just once more, breathe the fresh sea-air and dream of different lands and people…she walked on towards the sea, till the water almost reached her feet.

***

That was when she saw something in the water.

No. Some_body_, she mentally corrected herself.

A man. She gathered her skirts up, her heart jumping into her throat and water splashing around her, when she waded quickly towards him.

The water was freezing, but she paid it no heed.

He was half-lying on some kind of oar, she noted detached, but that was of no importance.

She had to get him out of the water quickly. Isolde took a hold of his armoured arms and pulled him to the shore. He was heavy, the water-sodden clothes and his armour making him even heavier. For the petite Isolde it was a hard piece of work, and she panted, when she had finally reached the shore.

Wasting no time, she knelt down in the wet sand next to him.

It was not a Roman man, she realised as she gently pushed the dark, braided hair out of his face, taking care not to touch the bruised spots.

He wore strange markings, like the claws of a hawk on his face and she let her finger linger over them for a second, never having seen such markings before.

But then she shook her head- stupid! – and looked at his wounds.

Some of them were a gruesome sight; she shook her head at the matted blood in his hair and gasped at the gash on his right leg. There were several other, smaller wounds, but she knew that she had to take care of the more dangerous ones first, if he were to live.

She bent down and sniffed at the leg wound, wrinkling her brow.

The salt water had done good work, but she would still need the herb speedwell…

For now, she tore a piece of her cape off, bandaging his leg as well as she could.

So absorbed was she in her work, that she didn't notice his slight movements.

When she looked up again, she was shocked to see amber, hawk-like eyes resting on her.

In the same moment she felt cold, ice-like, a dagger at her throat.

"Who are you?" The question was hoarse and posed in Latin. Isolde felt terrified for the split of a second, completely caught of guard.

"Who are you?" repeated the unknown warrior. "Isolde," she stammered.

"Please," she added hurriedly. "I will not do anything to you. I want to help you. I am a healer."

Mistrust still shone strongly in the amber eyes, but then the dagger started to shake violently and she quickly turned her neck away, holding him, while he started coughing, spitting out sea-water.

Relieved, she noted that he had put the dagger down, the hand holding it now lying limply on his chest. The coughing fit had obviously robbed him of his last reserves of strength.

It was remarkable, that he had survived his plight anyhow, Isolde thought to herself.

That took a strong man, both in body and in spirit.

The eyes opened again. This time his question was faint.  
"Who says I can trust you?"

"No one. But I presume that you will have to trust me. Otherwise you will die here."

Another cough wracked his body, and when he replied, his voice was tinged with dry amusement: "I suppose I shall trust you then."

Isolde smiled. "And I suppose you have to. Now, may I ask you for your name, or shall I name you Strange-Man-I-found-washed-up-on-the shore?"

_Keep him talking, _she thought frantically. _He has to stay awake._

"I appreciate your efforts," came the quiet, weak reply. She wondered if he could read her thoughts. "Tristan."  
"Can you stand, Tristan?"

He shrugged slightly and she helped him up. He stayed standing, leaned on her arm for not even half a man's stride, then he abruptly collapsed, pulling her down with him.

"Please," she begged, now desperate. "Please. You have to get up. There could be Romans nearby. I do not know of your allegiances, but I do know that they despise Gauls, and if you are found in my company…" She trailed off, seeing that her words fell on deaf ears.

But then a faint whisper came from him. "Run. Go!"

"No, I won't," she cried out desperately. He did not reply, having fallen back into a deep unconsciousness.

She briefly thought of trying to get him back to the settlement, but she knew that this was wishful thinking, so she thought better of it.

Therefore, she pulled him into the safety of a nearby rock, covered him with her cloak and ran as fast as she could in the same direction she had come from to get help.

For a while her footsteps still sounded in the distance, then they faded.

All that could now be heard was the soft rustle of the birches' leaves in the wind and the screech of a bird up in the sky.

* * *


	4. Hidden Truths

* * *

_This chapter has undergone some heavy changes, but I hope that you still like it nonetheless. I was not content with it anymore, since I started this story about four years ago, when I was fourteen years old...So you can imagine that some things had to be changed. I left the review replies, though, which are at the bottom of the page. I didn't want to remove them. And if you now think- why didn't she just use the review reply feature? Well, ff hadn't introduced it back then and I don't want to delete the answers now. _

_So, anyway, hope you enjoy and if you do, please, leave me a review! I am always so happy about them!_

_-Sachita^^_

* * *

**4. Hidden Truths **

*****  
**

It was the second time in a matter of days, that he woke from unconsciousness.

This time, though, the awakening was far more pleasant. The bitter taste of salt on his lips was not present anymore, nor was he lying on a softly rocking ship.

Instead, the underground was soft and his hands found the unmistakable, peculiar, dry feeling of linen. He opened his eyes and looked around. For a moment the light of the sun, which came from an opening in the wall, that was, as it was custom, half-covered with parchment to keep the cold out, almost blinded him.

When his eyes became accustomed to the light, he recognised the figure of a woman, busily moving around the room he was in. The sun still gleamed sharply, making it impossible for him to see her face, but he could see her hands, moving around, arranging dried herbs on a table. The room was not very big. He could see, save his bed, only the table she worked on, a low, wooden bedside cabinet and the rough, wooden walls. His eyes returned to her hands.

Her hands were lovely, long-fingered and her skin was creamy, not at all like his own rough, calloused, large hands. He could have spent an eternity, just staring at her hands.

However, she must have felt his intense gaze on her, because her shaded form turned around and again he thought that he had died and had been accidentally sorted into Arthur's heaven to gaze at the Roman angels. _But she wasn't a Roman_.

Reason had decided to chime in and he agreed with it, for she was certainly no Roman, but nor was she a Woad or a Saxon.

"Who are you?" He forced the words out.

She frowned and came closer, so he could make out her features.

Green eyes stared at him and he remembered a brief moment on a beach. He hadn't been sure if it had been a delusion or a dream.

"Isolde?"

Abruptly, a brilliant smile broke out on her face. "I am glad that you remember me, Sir Knight." She spoke pleasant, light, somewhat accented Latin.

"It's Tristan," he said hoarsely, wondering why he felt the need to correct her.

"You have been unconscious for three days," she said.

He nodded mutely, again gazing at her hands. "You saved me."

"I did." No question, no huge out-pour of words, just a simple affirmation, he noted, in a strange way content.

"Why?"

She didn't look as if it was a strange question, but a very valid one.

"I wanted to."

He nodded, accepting the answer.

"You're in Gaul," she informed him then with a low voice. "My country. You are lucky that I found you. Or would you have preferred being found by the Romans? Would they have cared for your wounds?"

A subtle way of asking him for his allegiances and he allowed an amused smirk to show.

"I do not know. I don't think so."

The smile she gave him in return was a timid, but at the same time relieved one and it lightened her lovely, and yes, she was indeed lovely to him, features.

"I must change the bandages on your leg," she said matter-of-factly, sitting down next to him on the bed. He had already noted that he was clad in a simple linen garment.

"You undressed me," he stated calmly.

"I did," she said, not glancing up from her work. "I had to."

Again, he inclined his head. "You are a very skilled healer."

The smile that she gave him was shy and for the first time, he saw her need for affirmation, which showed, that despite all her maturity, she was still craving for acceptance and hadn't found her place yet.

***

"So you are from Britain?"

"I serve in Britain," he replied calmly.

A subtle smirk lit her face, showing that she was enjoying their little game.  
"Where were you born then?"

Ah, a question he couldn't evade and he acknowledged her victory with a slight tilt of his head.

"Sarmatia."

"Is it a beautiful land?"

"Aren't all lands beautiful?"

She laughed this time and he couldn't help a slight smile.  
"You tease me, Tristan."

He raised an eyebrow in a silent inquiry, what only caused her to laugh harder.

While she was still chuckling, trying to control her mirth, he took a moment to muse on this strange occurrence. It had been a long time, since he had felt at ease with women, or, more accurately, since women had felt at ease with him.

When the need was too great, he occasionally drew on the service of the tavern wenches, but they, while accepting his money, were always gone shortly after.

He admitted that he was intimidating and cold, but then again, he had never felt anything for these women either. Isolde was a different kind of woman. She could understand him, or at least, she had something, that made him open up to her and there had been only one occurrence so far, when he had been wrong in assessing another's person's character.

This person had paid it with its life.

"I sat with you, you know;" she spoke up suddenly, then clarifying: "When you were unconscious."

He didn't answer.

"I used to wonder about you…" she sighed, sounding almost wistful. "What kind of man you are, where you are from, what happened to you."

"And- the outcome- is it satisfying to you?" He was not sure, why he had asked.

"Very much so," she smiled warmly and an unspoken something passed between them.

Then she abruptly turned away, only to gaze back at him with a strange intensity.

"What is freedom to you?"

Seldom was he caught off guard. This was one of the rare times.

"What?"

"What is freedom to you?" she repeated patiently.

He shrugged, jadedly. "I am not sure I know the feeling anymore. I used to, once."  
A lively fire sprang into her eyes suddenly and her face glowed.

"I think it is yielding to no one. Being as free as the murmuring stream in the woods or as quick as the splendid stag!"

Her cheeks burning, she looked to Tristan. The Sarmatian had taken to looking impassive again, following her hectic gestures with hooded eyes.

"What do you think?" she demanded harshly, suddenly wanting him to say something, to get him out of this passive state, see him alive with the energy she knew he possessed.

" 'Tis utter nonsense, woman," he stated calmly.

Hurt, she stared at him.

"There is no freedom like the one, you mentioned. Eventually, the stream will flow into a river and its uniqueness will be lost. The stag will fall prey to human hunters, its proud antlers red with its blood. There is no freedom like this. Only suppression and one must make the best of it."

"Is this what you think?"

But her attempt at releasing the man from behind the mask failed.

"I know it," he said evenly.

The stark truth sounded in his words, crushed her arguments and left her standing there, feeling young and foolish.

"I am sorry," she whispered.

"You are young. It's good that you don't know all about it yet," he mumbled hoarsely, the first vestiges of exhaustion finally catching up with him and slurring his words. "There is nothing to be sorry for…"

She watched as his breaths evened out and his eyes slid closed.

"But, Tristan," she muttered, "so are you."

* * *

Isolde slipped quietly back into his room after some hours had passed.

It was very quiet inside, there was only the sound of his heavy breaths and the chirp of some birds outside, announcing the afternoon of a cool spring day.

She sat down on the bedside cabinet and watched him as he lay sleeping.

He was still pale, far too pale. Long, dark lashes covered his eyes and the strange tattoos stood harshly out against the pallor of his skin.

His face was still guarded, even in sleep he seemed to keep his emotions close to himself.

She remembered, though, three nights prior, when he had been feverish and burning up and she had almost thought she would lose him, how his face used to twist and grimace just a other peoples' faces would. He had been more alive under the spell of the fever as he was now, she thought morosely. But did she have any right to judge him, the man, whom she barely knew?

_But you'd like to know him better_, the inward voice whispered.

She silenced it, irritated, even if she knew it to be true. She did indeed want to get to know him better, know what he was thinking, what he was feeling.

Plus, she had to concede, he was really handsome. Dark hair framed a face with high cheekbones and- she blushed- a very inviting mouth.

A little frown was on his face, and she shook her head, moving some of his braids out of his face. He flinched and she quickly withdrew her hand, marvelling, that he had not woken up.

But his sleep was an exhausted one and she didn't wonder about it for long.

Quietly, she skipped around the room, looking for his weapons. She had been intending to clean his daggers. They were full of rusty blood- on one there were even white strands of a horse's mane, she noticed with a frown.

Then she stared more closely at his bow, her gaze wandered over to his daggers and finally to the sleeping man in the bed. And all fell into place.

He had said, that he was from Sarmatia. A Sarmatian knight, serving in Britain.

The only Sarmatian knights she had ever heard of, were the legendary knights of the Roman commander in Britain, Artorius Castus. Many feared them and many admired them. "They're savages," it was whispered at campfires. "Silent dark men with a heart of stone." -"They're valiant," others said. "They are no ordinary mercenaries."

Isolde, for her part, never admired nor feared those knights. There was a great cloud of hate in her heart for the Sarmatian knights.

She had had a cousin once. As a boy, he had been a great companion, with sparkling, blue eyes and a dark head of hair. As he grew older, he learned to fight with a bow, but more importantly, he also learned to fight with a sword.

He was so skilled with it, that his reputation soon preceded him.

Breanainn, sword, he was soon called in honour of his skills, losing his childhood name in the process. Isolde was the only one who was still allowed to call him by that other name, which had been Beacan, the little, or the small one, as he had been a small, almost frail boy.

But then, Breanainn had gone to Britannia to deliver a gift to the leader of the native tribes in that stormy country, Merlin. Isolde's father had sent him, to form an alliance between Woads and the Morini. Isolde's grandmother had been a Woad herself and so they had thought nothing of sending him there. Months had passed. Breanainn hadn't returned.

And then, finally, one of his companions had come back, on the door of death, chased by Roman mercenaries. They had killed the Roman mercenaries, but they still couldn't save her cousin's friend.

With his dying breath, he had told them, that they had accidentally come to be involved in a battle between the Woads and Sarmatian riders, stationed under a Roman commander.

Even though Isolde had never believed it to be accidental, Breanainn had always been too helpful for his own good. Eventually, he had been killed by one of the knights with just one stroke of his curved blade. What had he looked like?

"Dark braids," he had said. "Markings on his face. A beard. A bow."

These had been his dying words and Isolde had quickly turned away so that Aericura, the deity of death, wouldn't get his fingers on her, too.

That day she had vowed to kill the man who had killed her dear Breanainn, her best friend and cousin.

Tristan. It had been him. Tristan, who was lying in front of her, defenceless.

She fingered the dagger and finally stared at his face.

She aimed at his heart.

* * *

_Hi everyone.  
_

_You really should check out Priestess of the Myrmidon's website.  
This stupid document manager always deletes the link, when I write  
it out, so I guess, you have to visit her __profile__ where the link is in full length too(-;  
She is holding the Tristran awards there.  
It's really a great website, if you want to read very good stories about our beloved scout….oh god, I think I am babbling…anyway…visit it! _

_And thanks for all the reviews, I am so glad, you like this story ! And I really mean that! _

_**Addicted2LancelotAndTristan**: Thank you for your reviews, they are always so encouraging! _

_**Priestess of the Myrmidon:**  
Thousand thanks for everything! For looking over the chaps and...oh, simply everything.  
You're really a great person.  
_

_**Jenni :** Thank you so much for your Review and I am glad you like this story. I love stories about Tristan too( ok, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this) and I think there are far too few of them!_


	5. Revelations

_So- here is it- the revised version of chapter 5. Chapter 6 is still WIP. Again, I left the review replies at the bottom of the page, and thank you, Priestess, for having taken the time to look at the previous version of this. Please, tell me what you think of the changes so far (=  
_

_Sachita_

* * *

**5. Revelations**

*****  
**

She didn't know what had alerted him, but in the very moment; the moment when her heart won over her desire to avenge her cousin, his dark eyes opened.

For a moment she stared in his deep, dark pools of mystery, then the dagger was abruptly forced from her hand.

The ugly sound of it falling to the ground was reverberating in the room for a moment.

Isolde was not certain what happened next.

She could only gaze into his dark eyes, alight with rage and deep betrayal, and despite all her shame, his eyes remained the only constant in her peripheral vision. Everything else quickly turned to a whirlwind of colour and sound as she was hurled across the room with brutal strength.

Her head hit the ground hard and for a moment her world spun madly around. Tristan's dark eyes were everywhere, dancing around her, mocking her.

She weakly lifted her head and then there was only one of him, but his gaze was full of fury and wrath. A warm liquid trickled from her mouth and she lifted a shaky hand to wipe it away. It came away bloody; the red a stark contrast against her pale skin.

"Tristan," she whispered, trying to explain.

His dark eyes stared at her unyieldingly, mercilessly. "Tristan, I am sorry…"

She couldn't stand his eyes any longer. In the face of his disgust and loathing she turned around and fled. He could have easily gone for her, but he didn't.

She couldn't have said how she felt in that moment.

Deep shame crawled up in her. Seeing his dark eyes in front of her she moaned and clutched at her bloody head with shaking hands.  
Her whole body was trembling and finally the tears came flooding down her cheeks.

She stumbled blindly into a room and fell on a bed; large, wrenching sobs shaking her whole body. She couldn't stop. Her control was completely gone and any attempt to regain it made her only shake harder.

The handle turned. Isolde didn't see it.

She was engrossed in her mad grief; her violent pain and her deep sense of shame.

***

The man in the door stared at the sobbing woman.

He wasn't sure why he had come. His initial plan to kill her wouldn't have been executed anyway, he knew it. The dagger curled up in his fist was just a ruse, more to satisfy his inward voice than anything. He wouldn't be able to kill that defenceless, miserable woman on the bed. Instead he exhaled unsteadily and walked towards her shaking form quietly, even though he could probably have made as much noise as he would like to. She wouldn't hear it anyway.

Awkwardly he sat down on the bed, gazing at her. A sense of deep betrayal was still his most prominent emotion; however; he didn't blame Isolde. She was just a human and he had never expected anything else than betrayal from humans. They all did it. Some in a small way, others in a big way.

He put the dagger away and hesitatingly moved a hand to her back.

Carefully and somewhat uncomfortably he placed it on the coarse fabric of her dress and started moving it in soothing circles, remembering a hand, that had used to do this for him, long forgotten days in a lost land; days in the summer with his mother.

He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, moving his hand over her back; when she curled up some more, rolled on her stomach and stared at him with dewdrops in grass-green eyes. Impassively he stared back.

"Why?"

"Revenge."

"For whom?"

"My cousin." Her control shattered into a thousand pieces and tears began their silent path down her sun-tanned face again. "And I wanted to kill you," she whispered strickenly, slinging her arms around her knees and swaying back and forth. "I wanted to kill you. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. I am a _disgrace_!" The last had been a tortured scream, wrenched from her throat.

Tristan didn't reply in words at first.

He slowly took her clenched fist up and uncurled the fingers carefully, holding the hand out in the light.

She had watched him doing it with hurt, wary eyes.

"You are not a disgrace," he told her lowly and they both watched how the sunlight was captured on her skin. "You are what you are. That's not for the others to decide. Be yourself and make sure that you do not let the petty opinions of those incriminating you with hurtful words get through to you. Make your decisions alone."

"There is truth in your words," she murmured hoarsely, but then, she abruptly lifted her head.

"But how can this be the truth? The words are coming from a man whose decisions are being made for him by the Romans!"

He was oddly pleased. Even now when the logical assumption would be not to anger the one, whom you have just tried to kill, but rather to flatter him, her words were honest.

But she had to know the boundaries.

"Careful," he warned her, making her aware that she was treading on thin ground.

"Do not question the truth in my words."

Again, the stubborn woman just didn't want to relent or so it seemed.

"Who are you that you think you can tell me what to do?" Defiance shining in her eyes, she tilted her chin up, exposing her throat.

Tristan eyed the soft, pale flesh of her neck, wondering how easy a knife would slice through the tendons of her flesh. He shuddered and his hand twitched. He shuddered some more and turned his face away momentarily, knowing that he wouldn't be able to kill her. Not her.

Isolde had started to fidget, unaware of his scrutiny. He thought that she was the opposite of him not only in her attitude towards the world, her mannerisms couldn't be more different of his either.

"Can you answer already!" she finally burst out impatiently.

He stared at her impassively. To her credit she didn't look away, but when he increased the intensity of his stare, she narrowed her eyes and averted them.

He felt faintly disappointed.

"Your stitches!" she cried out suddenly. Disinterested he looked down at his leg. It was as she had said. Dark, red blood had begun to seep through the white bandage. He shrugged and looked up through the fringe of his hair. "Doesn't hurt."  
She gaped at him, a truly comical sight, and a sigh came from her lips.

"Lie down."

"Who are you that you think you can tell me what to do?" he mocked her.

" I am only telling you what would be best for you," she answered tartly.

"So was I," he pointed out dryly.  
Robbed of her eloquence and somewhat defeated, she pointed to the bed.

He lay down, a tiny smug smile curling the corners of his mouth. She spotted it.

"You like winning don't you?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. She stared at him for some moments with those emerald eyes, then, suddenly, she burst out laughing.

He couldn't help himself; a small chuckle escaped him and he let it.

"Come on," Isolde said, amused. "Let's get your leg stitched up."

Her hands were cool and gentle on his skin, when she unrolled the bandage and gazed at the leg. "Wait a minute, please. I will be back immediately."

He only nodded. Seconds later, loud footsteps approached. Tristan stayed where he was, his keen eyes flickering to the door, his hand holding a dagger hidden behind his back.

***

The door was abruptly wrenched open. A clearly drunken Gallic warrior stumbled in, the golden trinkets woven into his tangled, dark beard indicating his high social standing.

He stared at Tristan for a second, then barked something in his harsh language.

Tristan's hand fingered the dagger behind his back.

Calmly he said in Latin: "This is not your room."

The man's muddled brain tried to make sense of his words, then he replied in broken, heavily-accentuated Latin: "This is my room. Why you Roman bastard!"

He charged at him, but Tristan was prepared and used his good arm to fend off the large brute.

Drunk as he was, the man fell over the edge of the bed.

Roaring, he got up and wanted to charge at Tristan again, but Tristan was prepared and held the glinting knife at his throat.

"Do you really want to anger your king?"

"Who are you?" the man pressed out.

Tristan quickly searched for an explanation. The only other Gallic tribe that would come to him was…"I am Trastin of the Osismii," he quickly lied. "And you should know that. It was your king in person who invited me."

The man looked intimidated and opened his mouth, but then Isolde was suddenly in the door.

In the same hard, quick language, that the man had used, she barked an order at him.

The man bowed and got up slowly, disappearing from the room.

***

Isolde sat down, matter-of-factly cleaning his leg with water from a basin.

"He has to obey you."

She smirked and didn't look up. "I am the daughter of the chief. Being privileged comes with certain advantages sometimes."

He nodded, not really surprised. In hindsight, it had been clear, that she could be no mere servant.

"No remark?" she asked, still focused on her task, and he caught the trace of a smile on her lips, before her face was obscured by the black tresses.

"No."

She lifted her head up and smiled widely. He liked seeing her smile, liked the small crinkles around her eyes, the pronounced dimples, and her flushed cheeks.

"I must really say," she remarked off-handedly, returning to her work, "that you are talking a lot today." A jest. Not many people jested with him. They usually didn't get an answer and they usually quickly got tired of making jests in the face of his emotionless mask.

Not her, though. In fact she didn't seem to care.

"What did you tell him?" she murmured then, referring to the drunkard.

"I said that I was a tribesman of the Osismii," he explained guardedly.

She started to laugh. Mirth shone in her eyes. "The Osismii?" she repeated.

He arched an eyebrow. "It's the only Gallic tribe I know of."

Isolde obviously tried hard to control her mirth in the face of his impassive stare.

"It's just," she coughed and snickered, "that the Osismii are notorious for being savage people, who live, as the name says "at the end of the world." Some say, their women cook soup made of crawly creatures, they howl at the moon and drink blood. That's what rumours say, anyway. No wonder Merda, the man you encountered, left so quickly."

He chuckled and smiled fleetingly.

"How fitting," he mused quietly, sardonically.

Silence reigned for a few moments. Quietly, Isolde continued to stitch up his leg.

Then she said softly, tears shining in her eyes:

"I wouldn't have done it."

"And- does your choice satisfy you?" he asked abruptly, harshly.

She looked away, then again up at him. "You are a fine man, Tristan. The finest I have ever met."

Harshly: "Then you haven't met many men."

"Why do you say that?" she breathed defiantly. "Let me make my own decisions. You said so yourself."

"I am not a good man, Isolde," he stated flatly.

She looked hurt. "We should go back to the room."

"No," he said quickly, holding her back.  
"Yes?" she asked, still looking troubled.

"Why wouldn't you have been able to do it? I killed your cousin."

Wonder resonated in his voice. He knew that he would slay anyone who had killed one of his brothers without second thought.

"He went to Britain." Her voice was strained. She sat down on the edge of the bed.

"He went to Britain because my father ordered him. And he never returned."

Tristan remained silent.

She turned anguished eyes upon him. "Do you feel guilt?" she asked painfully.

"No," he said plainly.

"How can you say that?" she cried incredulously.

Shortly, he said: "I am sorry for your loss. But I do not feel any guilt. You have never been in combat, that is why you speak this way. It is about being killed or kill. The first one," his eyes strayed in the distance, "is the hardest one." He turned his dark gaze back to her.

"But you have to detach yourself from it. It is a hard lesson, but one that we all had to learn. The Romans taught us to take lives. They didn't tell us that taking lives will also take yours, piece for piece."  
She cocked her head, studying him intently. He looked back at her, his face unreadable.

" We should go back to the room now," she said finally and he saw that she tried to hide her emotions, but he saw right through her and recognised grief, pain, sadness- for him? and understanding.

Warily he swung his legs out of the bed and hissed, when he tried to stand.

She had observed his efforts with a sardonic expression, something he wouldn't have thought to find on her face.

"This is why injured people shouldn't walk around," she remarked dryly, offering her shoulder.

He stared at her angrily.

She smirked.

He frowned.

She finally broke their little staring match and helped him to the other room.

He gracelessly fell on the bed, the exhaustion finally catching up with him.

"I shall leave you to your rest now," she said formally.

"Good night," he replied quietly.

She smoothed down her dark blue dress awkwardly and fiddled with a dark strand of hair.

"I-" she flushed.

He waited, patiently.

"Good night," she mumbled and hushed out of the room, a blush blossoming on her pale cheeks.

He allowed an amused smile to break out on his face, now that he was alone.

She was really something else. He had never met someone like her before.

He thought of the sparkle in her eyes when she laughed, the sound of her accentuated Latin, the grace of her movements and the smell of her hair.

A clearly innocent woman, but somehow, she touched his heart in ways, that he couldn't have explained. Not a feeling like the short-lived excitement in battle, nor like the peaceful solitude of his long, lone scouting trips. Something else entirely.

For a moment, he felt almost aghast.

He had to stop thinking that way. She couldn't claim his heart. He wouldn't let her.

_Will have to get away soon_, he thought fleetingly.

She had tried to kill him. Who said that she wouldn't try it again?

But somehow, despite of the sound reasoning of the inward voice, he couldn't deny that he still trusted her. Why, he couldn't have said. She wouldn't try to kill him again.

He was sure of it.

The need for retribution was something he understood very well.

After his family had been killed, he had been feral with blood-lust. Still to this day, he was glad that Arthur would never know, how his fingers had curled around his throwing knives, when he saw a flash of his commander's red cloak; how he had had to restrain himself so he wouldn't shoot the Romans on the wall; how he had to keep himself in check to not to behead any person bearing Rome's insignias.

Years had passed and his control had steadily increased. He had started to differ between the Romans. Unlike Galahad he knew, that there were other Romans like Arthur.

But he hadn't had mercy when he had encountered the Roman from his nightmares again, the leader of the Rogues, who had killed his father.

He could remember it all too clearly, as if it had been engraved in his memory by a chisel.

* * *

_**Three years earlier…**_

"_Ave, Artorius Lucius Castus. __Welcome to Portus Dubris," the dark-haired Roman Commander greeted Arthur formally, completely ignoring the assembled Sarmatians behind him._

"_Ave Aulus Decius Triarius," Arthur greeted back just as formally. The Sarmatians assembled behind him looked sullen and suspicious. Arthur ordered them to dismount. They all did so with a dark glare. Tristan's hawk flapped wildly on his arm, then it took off. He watched her fly away slightly envious: she did not have to stay in that enclosed space of the Romans, instead she was able to roam as freely as she wished. His gaze snapped back to Arthur and the Roman Commander. A Roman soldier had stepped up, his breast-plate polished and his red cape billowing in the wind. Tristan recognised him immediately and a strong, almost mad feeling of fury rose up in him._

"_May I introduce one of my best Centurions to you, Arthur. He has already been to the land of your knights, Sarmatia, years ago…" The Commander said condescendingly. Tristan didn't listen to him. His thoughts had wandered to a different time. Misty days in a green land. A group of Roman mercenaries passing through their village, watched with suspicion even if they traded for their food. Their Leader had an ugly scar across his face._

_His little sister disappearing some days after, then his mother. Father had tried to look for them. Bloody corpses, the dead eyes of his family staring back at him._

_Sinister, dark anger bubbled up in him._

"_Tristan?" A hand touched his arm hesitatingly. Galahad , who then backed away in the face of Tristan's loathing eyes. They stayed in the tavern of the fort Portus Dubris that night._

_The Roman Centurion had come in, too. He stayed long with his men, drinking and gambling. Tristan sat in the shadows. Waiting. Watching. As still as a statue._

_The other knights avoided him, wary of the dark, calculating anger that burned in his eyes._

_Crossing Tristan when he was in one of his violent moods had never been a good idea._

_That night the Roman didn't return to his quarters. They looked for him without success._

_Arthur assembled his knights the day after. "Was it one of you?" he demanded._

_Tristan, who had been disinterestedly carving an apple with one of his grimy daggers looked up. "It was me," he said calmly. The others looked at him as if he was crazy._

_Arthur looked shocked and very disappointed._

"_Why?" Tristan gave him a silent look that clearly said that he would only tell Arthur.  
His brothers got the hint and left the room. For once, Tristan told Arthur everything. It wasn't as if he wouldn't be honest at other times, he always was. He just sometimes left some things out of his tales. _

_When he had finished, Arthur had put his head into his hands. Tristan waited. Patiently._

"_You can go, Tristan," Arthur lifted his head._

_The scout didn't move. "Am I to be punished?" he asked calmly._

"_No," Arthur replied curtly. "I- I can understand it." He wavered, something so unusual on his composed commander, that Tristan felt slightly surprised._

_The calm Commander was back in less than a minute though._

"_It can never happen again, Tristan," Arthur finally broke the silence._

_He nodded. "It won't."_

_Arthur massaged his temples. "You can go now."_

_Tristan turned away. Arthur's voice stopped him: "Your mother, what was she like?"_

_Tristan hesitated for the split of a second. An unusual question, but it had been Arthur who had posed it and so he tried his best to answer it. He owed Arthur that much._

"_She was beautiful," he rasped finally. _

"_Kind. I think she loved me very much."_

_When he turned back to Arthur, there was so much grief and comprehension in the man's eyes that he, who never looked away, had to avert his gaze._

_With a silent nod he walked out, leaving Arthur to stare at the closed door, his expression as empty as that of a dying man. _

"_I can understand you very well indeed, Tristan," he murmured._

_Tristan didn't tell the other knights. Dagonet, who knew parts of the story, guessed the rest, as did some of the others. Tristan wasn't concerned with the opinion of his brothers. _

_He accepted the whispers and Galahad's disbelieving, scornful gaze. Let the pup believe he had only killed that Roman for pleasure. He didn't care for he had finally avenged his loved ones._

_***  
_

Tristan's eyes held satisfaction even now, when he thought of the murderer's death .

It stayed in his eyes until they slowly drifted closed and his breathing evened out in exhausted sleep.

* * *

_Thanks for your reviews !_

_darkdestiny2000 : Thanks for your review and well, Isolde is normally Irish, but, you know, writer's freedom...(-; _

_ Priestess and Addicted2LancelotAndTristan : Of course, thank you too, very, very much for your wonderful feedback!_

_(-; Sachita_


	6. The Misty Sun

_Revised version of chapter six is here (= Chapter seven is WIP, but I do not intend to make so many changes like in the earlier chapters. I hope you like this new version, too. As usual, the old review replies are at the bottom of the page. _

_Sachita (=  
_

* * *

**6. The Misty Sun**

*****  
**

Winter had gradually changed into spring. Birds' songs could be heard everywhere in the swamplands, that surrounded Isolde's clan's settlement.

Morning mist drifted around the high tufts of grass, getting caught up in the long blades. There was the sound of many insects in the air. Horses whinnied somewhere nearby.

Tristan was standing at the window, unmoving, his sharp eyes watching it all.

The parchment, that had covered his window before, had been taken down, as the weather gradually grew warmer. However, this also brought about a drop of temperature in the night, that was why Isolde had come one day, arms fully loaded with some heavy furs.

He had told her, that he would hardly feel too cold, but she had insisted.

But the changes outside also showed that he had been here far too long. Weeks had changed into months and he had almost recovered from his wounds by now.

Still, he always found an excuse not to go. He knew that he had to get back to Arthur but something prevented him from doing so. He was aware that it was her.

She had something about her…He felt almost guilty, when his thoughts betrayed him in that way. It was not like him to be that fascinated by a woman.

But…she was different. Not at all like the British women back at the Roman fort, but so much more. Her ways were confident, even towards him, who had intimidated everyone so far, more or less.

"I am not afraid of you," she had said once when he had asked her about it. "I believe that you are a fine man." He brooded over her words. How often had he tried to make her understand, that no, he was not a fine man. He was not for good for her and he knew it. But he couldn't let go of her, now that he had got to know her better. It was a vicious circle and she was Lady Temptation herself.

She possessed so much kindness. Never had he met a woman so kind before, kind to him, when she didn't know him and didn't know what he was capable of.

Then her obvious innocence in ways that the women of Britannia didn't have. Most of the women at the fort were shrewd, cunning, with agendas. Always.

The ones who weren't , were pale, graceless creatures who averted their gazes, shunned the sun and joined one of the Roman's holy convents as soon as they could.

Woad women were hard, cold, ruthless. They had to be, he supposed. He had encountered them sometimes at Samhain, the one night ,when there was an uneasy truce was between them and the Celts.

Isolde was neither. She introduced a new definition, a kind of person he had never met before.

She had told him, that she had grown up alongside the coast, far away from Romans, her own tribes or other persons, alone with a handful of Gallic warriors, her kind nursemaid and said woman's daughter, a girl named Branwaine.

"It were two houses, located on a cliff. There was a small path down to the grey sea."

She had smiled when she had told him about it. "You could always see the dark clouds chase across the horizon, and the waves, that hungrily licked at rough rocks half-buried in the sea. The wind tore at your clothes, every day of the year. I loved it."

"Why did your father send you away?"

Something painful had hushed across her face.

"I presume my presence reminded him of my dear mother, who passed away when she had me."

How he had longed to hold her in that moment, press his lips to hers, ease the frown on her face and never let her go.

Tristan shook his head, almost imperceptibly. What was that woman doing to him?

He needed to leave soon.

A quiet knock on the door startled him out of his deep thoughts. Isolde.

"Enter," he said calmly.

* * *

Isolde entered the room and saw him standing at the window.

"I brought you some water," she said haltingly. He inclined his head.

She put the water down on the bedside cabinet and turned around to face him. He looked at her with those deep, dark eyes unfathomably.

She uncomfortably wrung her hands and felt how her heart sank and her self-control wavered.

Damn that man! Her usual confidence was gone. In his presence she felt vulnerable and excited both. Her heartbeat sped up as he came closer, moving in the graceful way of a cat. The now already familiar feeling of dizziness assaulted her as she deeply inhaled his unique scent- a scent that spoke of unattainable snow-covered mountain tops and infinite, dark forests.

"Was that all what you intended to ask?"

Damn him once again! She struggled for words helplessly.

"No, I-I-"

Amusement was now plainly visible on his sharp features. "Speak up, my Lady."

With a leap backwards she removed herself from their intimate closeness.

A glint of something akin to annoyance flashed up in his eyes briefly before he resumed to his previous wry, amused stare.

"Actually," she squeezed out between gritted teeth , irritation rising up in her, "I intended to ask you if you wanted to go outside for a walk. With me."

Her words clearly threw him off. She could see confusion pass over his face, clouds darkening the sun. Now he was the one left seeking for words.

A smug smile settled on her face, as she saw it.

"What?" she teased. "Never been asked to go for a walk before? It's not as if I had asked you to put a stick through your person and roast yourself over an open fire."

He obviously didn't hear her last words or she would have caught an irritated stare or a frown already. He had already learned that her jests wouldn't cease when he tried to intimidate her.

Tristan didn't frighten her, as he probably should, nor did she hate him for her cousin's death, like she probably should, too. In fact, she was fascinated by him.

She focused on him again. He looked as if he wanted to say something, then thought better of it and nodded: "Alright."

No further words were necessary. She motioned to the door and he nodded, following her out.

***

They walked away from the settlement, down to the beach. To the wind, the waves, the stormy sea.

A sharp blast of air sprang up suddenly, causing her to wrap her arms around her body and tremble slightly. Without a word he handed her his dark cape. She accepted it with a grateful, his answering nod was stoic. A long silence fell.

"I am glad our little deception with my father worked," she said finally, softly.

They had told Troucestes, Isolde's father, the same story, he had told Mera, the drunken man: He was Trastin, a tribesman of the Osismii, bringing news of the Western tribes. Romans had assaulted him on his way here and Isolde had found him.

The king had posed some insignificant questions and he made some answers up, his skill at reporting being convenient. The king had believed them immediately, not even bothering to ask further question. Isolde was still more than relieved about it all.

Tristan nodded silently to her statement.

She sat down on a small rock, the wind tearing at her hair, her green eyes fierce as she stared in the distance. A question began to form in her mind, powerfully, it clawed at her thoughts, demanding to be posed.

"What do you believe in, Tristan?"

She didn't get an answer and when she looked up at him, who was still standing, she saw that he was pensively watching the horizon.

"I do not know," he eventually said indifferently.

"But you must believe in something!" she cried, her passion a stark contrast to his sober statement.

He looked down at her this time, his eyes finding hers. "Why?"

"Because-" Incredulously, she rose to her feet. "What are we without belief! What are we without dreams, without something to hold onto!"

"My dreams," he said heavily, looking past her, "have died so long ago that I have forgotten what they were."

Hesitatingly, she touched his arm and he flinched back. She quickly withdrew her hand.

"I am sorry," she said.

He actually laughed, a short, hoarse laugh. "Whatever for? It's not your fault."  
"No, it's not. But I am convinced that everyone should believe in something."

He remained silent, then he said slowly:  
"If your faith is truly so deep, Milady, then I shall believe in you."

Isolde blushed heavily and looked away. "You can do that," she said.

When she looked back, he was directly in front of her and his warm breath on her face made her tremble.

Shivers ran down her back. He was so close that she could see every detail of his face, from the shaggy hair to his slightly opened lips, the high cheekbones, the black ink of the tattoos. She drowned in his amber eyes, so deep, so profound…

Her heart pounded in her chest. Her knees trembled . She was feeling warm and cold all at the same time. Then he came even closer and she felt as if she might faint.

But then he abruptly turned away.

Isolde fled.

***

Tristan looked slowly after her, then he shook his head.

He hadn't been able to do it. How he had longed to press his lips to hers, to finally taste her sweet smell, to feel her body against his…

He thought of how she had slightly parted those rosy lips, how she had pushed her body closer in anticipation of the kiss.

Her scent had been uniquely hers, that alluring mixture of sea, a green meadow in the sun, dark, red petals of a flower on a cloudless day.

But then he had seen that implicit trust in the green depths of her eyes and he had immediately stopped, feeling how horror overcame him. The feeling of ice-cold shock was still there.

She trusted him with her life. She had deep feelings for him. For him!

He berated himself for being so stupid, for letting himself get so close to her. He was not good for her. She deserved someone kind, someone who would do everything for her, someone understanding. He was not a good man.

Tristan laughed, bitterly, sardonically.

What in all the hells had he become? A man who was scared to kiss a damn woman. A man who had crawled away from death.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. Tomorrow he would look for a ship that would take him back to Britain.

* * *

****_darkdestiny2000: Thanks for your review! Yes, my Tristan is a little bit...name it thoughtful. In my country is a saying: "Silent waters are deep." I think that would fit Tristan too (-;_

_ Priestess of the Myrmidon: You know, you´re really great! Thanks for our review and for looking over the chapter again...you were so quick again :-D_

_ Addicted2LancelotAndTristan: Thanks again for your review and your encouragement!_

* * *


	7. The sound of silence

_Revised version of chapter seven is here! I hope you like it (= As usual, I left the old review replies at the bottom of the page._

* * *

**7. The sound of silence**

*****  
**

"Fresh fish, vegetables and meat!" a rugged, stinking man cried, revealing yellow, holey teeth.

Opposite of him, another one cried:

"No, don't listen to him! He poisons his food! Buy my things instead!"

With a dark glare, Tristan walked past them, ignoring their stare.

An old, gnarled woman with a dark, tatty dress quickly scurried out of his way, offering fearful glances.

Tristan didn't even look at her. He had been trying to find a ship-owner for half of the forenoon already. Slowly he was getting impatient.

He had departed from Isolde's care the day before, taking care not to be seen by the Gauls, who of course knew their territory much better than him. It had been a tedious journey through swamplands and forest, always along the coastline, and more than once he had wished to have Byaczt at his side.

And then he had arrived here- a little, unknown town, founded by the Romans.

Everything was filthy and shabby here; in fact, the little house to his right looked as if it had been made out of loam, grime and some old ship planks.

The people were unfriendly, hard-working and world-weary. Only the strongest survived here, in their world, and they averted their gazes, whenever their eyes found one of the huddled figures in torn rags, who clawed at their sleeves with long, spidery white fingers. Him they shot distant, cool glares, as he brushed past them.

Tristan wasn't surprised.

The air was filled with shouts, loud, desperate wails and the smell of rotten fish, old meat and death. Tristan despised it.

Of course, the towns in Britain didn't look much better than this one, but at least the fort wasn't as big as this town. Here, the house walls seemed to crush him and he felt as if he might choke, never having been one for narrow spaces and small rooms.

He finally left the hustle and bustle of the market behind and made his way in one of the narrow, murky alleys, that seemed to dominate the whole town.

The quiet sound of footsteps alerted him. They seemed to come directly out of the gloom.

Tristan narrowed his eyes slightly and kept a firm grip on his dagger. A shadowy, cloaked figure approached slowly. He waited. The figure came still closer, tried to grab his sleeve.

In a matter of seconds he had her pinned against the house wall.

The person turned out to be woman. She didn't move and didn't say anything.

***

Impatiently, Tristan pulled the hood of the cape back and revealed a pale face with green eyes, framed by curly, black hair.

"Isolde." He was surprised, yet he could hide it well.

Isolde placed a silencing finger on her lips. She put her hood back on and grabbed his hand.

He allowed her to lead him through the town until they had arrived in the nearby Woods.

Finally irritated he asked her: "What is it Isolde?"

She still shushed him angrily and didn't speak until they were deep in the forest and definitely out of earshot. Then she turned around, looking disappointed.

"Why did you go?"  
Impassively: "I have to get back to Britannia, to my Commander."

She spluttered for a moment and he regretted following her.

He should have just left her in that alley.

"You-" She looked speechless, ferocious in her anger and it made her even more beautiful to him. "You just go away and can't even walk properly again and you- you just-!" She broke off. The anger evaporated, leaving behind only sadness.

"Why did you do it, damn you?" she asked quietly.

Tristan felt anger bubbling up in him. This was not supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to get all plaintive and lachrymose. He wanted to leave, but he knew that he couldn't, so he stayed, angry at himself for getting attached to her in the first place and not leaving earlier and angry at her for putting him in that uncomfortable a position.

"Damn you, woman," he said lowly. "I am grateful for your help. Yet you do have your own life. As do I. That's why our fates shall once again be divided now."

She paled, her heart in her eyes, and once more, he felt like lamenting over the innocence, that she still possessed and would soon lose in this world, no doubt of that.

"You-" she stammered, now completely robbed of her calm. Tears shone in her eyes.

"You could have at least said goodbye. Is that not the proper way for a knight to depart?"

Tristan regarded her coldly, willing all of his sentiments towards her to dissipate.

"I have never liked good-byes…everyone gets red eyes, everything is pathetic."

Isolde's eyes were now glistening with her tears, dewdrops caught in grass blades, but she quickly looked away so he wouldn't see them.

She would not cry. Not in front of him. Instead of a crying so, the Gallic woman opted for a more satisfactory idea, an ancient, timeless weapon of the women: she slapped him.

Hard. Caught off guard, he stumbled backwards, only bewilderment and confusion in his eyes now. So he was confused?

Well, she would make him see. With a quick step she was so close to him that she could feel his slow breaths on her face and see the still-not-completely-healed bruises around his dark eyes.

"Damn you," she hissed quietly, venomously. "I thought that you were different. Better than the others. But," by now she couldn't hold the frustrated, dejected tears back anymore and they slipped down her face to land on his tunic, "now it seems as if you are not a man but a block of ice. A cold-blooded killer. I was wrong in my assessment. I do hope it is this loneliness you desire and seek for, Tristan."

She stumbled back a few steps, her heart in her throat. Instead of sounding dignified, her words now sounded rather small, even to her own ears and she was angered at herself for it.

"I shall leave now. Good-bye."

With that she turned quickly around, avoiding to look in his eyes and walking over to her loyal brown mare, that was tied to a small, sickly-looking tree nearby, happily munching away some unidentifiable green stuff.

***

Strong arms caught her from behind, a calloused thumb wiped her tears away.

"I could never let you go." His voice was dark and full of sad truth.

"Why?" she breathed, not resisting.

"Isolde," he breathed next to her ear, almost seductively. She shivered.

Then, acting completely on impulse, she turned around to push her body close to his and wrap her arms around him. Tristan immediately stiffened and stood there as still and rigid as a board - that did not surprise her- but he didn't do anything to push her away, he just didn't return her embrace.

After long minutes she released him, leaning against a tree, enjoying the sun, that splayed brightly over her face. Pensively, she twirled a strand of hair around her finger, not looking at him: "You couldn't have gotten a ship in that town."

"And why not?" he asked quietly from the shadows.

"Saxons," she said matter-of-factly. "The Romans forbade traders to cross the sea to Britannia for the time being because of the imminent danger of Saxon raids. Only military ships are allowed now. This is not a military port."  
"I see," he breathed and she jumped a little, because she hadn't noticed him sneaking up from behind. "Too bad." His breath impinged on her neck and little shivers ran down her back.

With a sigh, she exposed her throat and he nuzzled it. Her knees went weak and she collapsed backwards in his strong arms, gazing up in his eyes.

"What are you doing to me?" she demanded, only half-jesting.

Instead of providing an answer, he pushed her away, a concentrated expression appearing on his face. It was almost as if he tried to keep himself from touching her.

Was he repulsed by the idea? She quickly looked away, hurt.

"Isolde," he called quietly. She didn't raise her eyes.

"What is it?" Still, she refused to answer.

Annoyed, he kicked a tree stump. "Are you deaf? Why aren't you replying?"

When she still didn't react, he turned half away and if she had looked up she would have seen the uncertainty in his eyes, despite his valiant attempt to hide it.

"I should go. Is that what you are trying to tell me?"

This made her look up quickly and take his arm. "No!"

Quieter, she added: "Don't go. Please."

Tristan stared at her for a moment longer.

Then, suddenly, as if he had reached a decision, he nodded once- quietly to himself, then he tugged at her arm and told her to get on the horse and to follow him.

Curiously and at the same time feeling strangely defenceless, Isolde mounted her horse and followed. She wouldn't get an answer to her question anyway. Weeks of caring for Tristan had taught her that well enough.

Still, from time to time, she sent him an impatient glare and sometimes, an amused smirk curled his lips, but he still wouldn't say anything.

The horse's reins firmly clutched in his big fist, he led her deeper in the forest.

They passed ancient trees with thick crowns, that prevented the sunlight from shining through, so it was a greenish light. Thick moss covered the ground and Tristan's steps left dark imprints. Birds softly cried somewhere in the impenetrable green mass.

Isolde wasn't used to these kind of forests. Her tribe's areal was dominated by swampland or by little gatherings of birches. Not like this.

A little clearing finally appeared through a gap between two large oaks and with a fluid motion Tristan grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off the horse.

She let out a small scream and he laughed, a pleasant sound.

She glared at him, but when she turned around, all of her annoyance was forgotten.

White and lilac flowers were wildly growing everywhere on the little sunny clearing.

The grass was soft-looking and of a lush green. A brown bird took wing with a quiet chirp.

But the thing, that she took the most delight in, was the stream.

A murmuring stream on which the sun sent glittering traces. Stones formed natural paths across it, and as she turned around and gazed at Tristan, she could almost see little dark-haired children running over them, laughing and screaming.

The vision disappeared quickly, though, and a nagging sadness appeared in her heart.

He would go soon. She knew it. Was this his farewell present to her, so to say?

Trying to distract herself, she said finally, in genuine awe: "When did you find this place?"

"On my way."

***

He sat down on a partly moss-covered rock. She sat down next to him and let her feet dangle.

Tristan appeared to be deep in thought, his eyes were half-closed and his forehead was creased in intense concentration, almost as if he was listening to something.

"What are you listening to?" she asked curiously.

"It is," he said, opening his eyes and looking pleased, "something we used to do back home in Sarmatia a lot. Don't you hear it?"

"What?" she asked, then laughed, when he covered her eyes with his calloused hands.

"Don't keep me in suspense!"

"Listen," he murmured and she listened. At first she didn't hear anything, but then, after a while, when she listened longer to the quiet murmur of the stream, the birdsong and the hushed rustle of the leaves, then she heard it.

A quiet melody, played with the instrument of nature.

"The sound of silence," Tristan whispered and even his voice was woven into that complex-built melody, that ever-changing tune in the air.

Then, when Isolde turned to him and saw the sky reflected in the depths of his amber eyes, she began to understand. To understand Tristan. It was as if she had caught a glimpse of the man behind the composed mask.

They sat on the rock for a long time. No words were needed.

Evening fell slowly, casting blue shadows on the stream.

Eventually, they left the rock and lay down in the long grass.

Isolde slowly turned her head and saw that he was looking at her, amber eyes intense and fierce.

Suddenly uncomfortable, she cleared her throat.

"Do you want to know how I got away without them becoming suspicious?"

A small smile played on his lips. "I am sure you had a good story ready."

"Of course I did." Isolde laughed, the corners of her eyes crinkling. He put a hand up and gently traced her lips. She reddened.

"Telling false stories…Such an unladylike behaviour from you," he mumbled, looking completely serious and Isolde needed some time to understand that it had been a joke.

The finger wandered over to her cheek and again blood rushed to her face.

When he saw her blush, he laughed again, the second time that day. Isolde loved his laugh. It was deep and genuine, from deep in his chest.

The finger returned to her lips and she seized the opportunity, using his momentary distraction to lean in and kiss him. Finally.

The kiss was a chaste one, at first, and for a horrible, long moment, she thought, that he would push her away. But finally he pulled her closer. Passion burning in her, she deepened the kiss.

They broke apart finally, both of them gasping for air.

Then the next tidal wave followed and both of them got lost in the raging fire once again.

Isolde had completely lost all feeling for time and space, when she finally broke away and fell in the grass next to him. Again, they didn't speak. No words were needed and even if they had spoken, they couldn't have found the words for what had passed between them only moments ago. Isolde was drowsy, his body warmth so close to her lulled her into a light slumber.

After a while he got up and returned shortly after with wood for a fire.

Without a word, he lay back down next to her. The fire was being reflected in his amber eyes.

She drifted off to sleep.

* * *

_Thanks as always for your great reviews, Scouter, Priestess of the Myrmidon,Addicted2LancelotAnd Tristan and darkdestiny2000._

_**

* * *

  
**_


	8. A Lone Sound in the Silence

_Revised version of chapter eight. I am not going to change so much in the next chapters, like I did with those eight. You could say, the period of radical reforms is over with this chapter^^. Hope you like this new version, too , for those of you, who have known the old one. Again, old review replies are as usual at the bottom of the page. Thanks again for the reviews you left!_

_-Sachita  
_

* * *

**8. A Lone Sound in the Silence**

*****  
**

She cast up her eyes and shielded them quickly from the blinding brilliant blue of the morning sky. Looking around frantically, she realised that she was alone on the small clearing.

But next to her was a dagger, which had been embedded in the ground with so much force, that the mossy soil had quickly relented. Smiling, she fingered the hilt.

He would never leave without his dagger.

The sound of a cracking twig somewhere nearby made her head shoot up, fear in her eyes.

That had been no animal. Snap! Again the sound of twigs breaking.

She quickly rose, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. Her breath quickened. This was no Gaul territory and she would never be mistaken for a Roman Lady. Roman Lady weren't in the habit to venture alone in the woods.

Distressed, she let her eyes wander over the suddenly hostile green mass of trees. Where were they? It was too late to hide. There was nowhere where she could have hidden, anyway.

Tightly and with a hand, that burned with sweat and the force of her grip, she clutched the dagger. Cold shivers ran down her spine.

Killing someone? Fighting a man with weapons? If her situation hadn't been so dire, a hysterical laugh would have made its way over her lips.

She had never killed another. Her endeavour had always been to mend the tears that others had left, to repair what had been broken and to reassure those in distress.

Oh, in dark and lonely nights when they had been safe and protected, huddled together under warming blankets while her father's warriors kept vigilant watch, Branwaine and her had always imagined being great warrior queens…Just like Boadicea, the one, who had led an uprising against the Romans hundreds of years ago.

Reality looked very different. The leaves of the trees nearby started to shiver in a slight breeze as if someone came in her direction.

She stared at the shaking dagger with terrified eyes and comprehended finally, how naïve she had been to think she could ever be a warrior.

Then the bushes were parted and slowly, she raised her eyes, seeing Roman sandals, hairy legs and finally the traditional clothing of a Roman officer. A guard, one of those who patrolled the outer borders of every bigger Roman settlement.

Usually, they were alone, but unfortunately for Isolde, two other strict-looking Romans officers accompanied him, their severe features only enhanced by their dark expressions.

Cold steel was put to her throat and she shivered in terror, staring along the length of the short blade being held to her throat to its owner, the Roman on the right.

No mercy was in his strict gaze, coldness radiated off him in waves. Of course, her shaking inward voice reasoned, what was she to him? A savage? A barbarian? A wild, uncivilised animal from the Woods?

Resentment and wild, hysterical anger made her suddenly shake. The Roman in the Middle put his arm out as if he wanted to take a hold of her. She wasn't even aware of her quick movement, it was as if it was someone else who threw the dagger with such malicious force, that she winced even in that moment.

Her eyes wide, she backed away from the Roman, who had released her.

***

Slowly, the man in the middle fell to his knees, the dagger sticking from his throat. Bright red blood bubbled over his lips, staining his immaculate armour.

He raised his dying gaze to her and finally his eyes went cold and dead. He fell to the ground, one last choking noise and he didn't move again.

Isolde stared. She couldn't do much else. Numb and somewhat frozen she stared at the other Romans, who, after a quick glance to their comrade on the ground now avanced, burning hate in their eyes and their swords held high.

She had killed a man. She had killed a man. No other thought was in her head.

Perhaps he had had children. A smiling, dark-haired wife. Maybe he'd been faithful to her, maybe not. The feeling of strange power, which had dominated her, when she had thrown the dagger had vanished completely, leaving behind complete, desolate, bleak emptiness.

Detached, she saw, that suddenly both of the Romans collapsed. Tristan. With his long curved blade in his hand, which was still freshly stained with their blood. A feral, almost crazed look in his eyes. Dazed, she stared at the blood on the sword.

Tristan had been intent to check their surroundings in order to see if there were more Romans nearby, but then his eyes fell on Isolde. She was pale, shivering violently with an almost crazed look in her eyes. His eyes found the dead Roman and wandered back to her face.

And when her legs finally gave out, he was there to catch her.

***

Slowly, the scout looked at the unconscious woman in his arms, frowning.

"Why would they bring something as weak and defenceless in a world like this?" he asked her in his lilting accent.

But of course there was no reply; just the quiet rustle of the trees over him and the murmur of the stream nearby. Another frown crossed his face and he looked up to read the signs of nature. Good. No further enemies were nearby.

Gently, he put her down on the soft ground, smoothing a stray strand of hair out of her face.

Subsequently he walked back over to the other side of the clearing.

Not missing a beat, he pulled the dagger out of the corpse, cleaning it in the grass. After he had finished, he repeated the same procedure with his sword. Picking her up again easily, he walked across the river with her in his arms and deeper into the forest, until he reached another clearing. Through the trees he could see the grey sea, which was in a way, perfect for his plan to leave this day.

Then, he didn't do much. He just sat down next to her and waited.

***

He didn't have to wait long. Soon, her eyes flew open and recognising the dazed look in them, he gave her a reassuring nod.

"Tristan?" Her voice was weak and scratchy and Tristan was sorry for an instant. that the Romans were already dead. They would have deserved to die twice for what they had almost done to his woman. His woman? His hand clenched to a fist. No. He had to stop this. Had to leave soon but- His eyes found Isolde's face again. She looked shaken and pale, as if she had seen a ghost.

Again, he tried to send her a reassuring smile and hoped that it hadn't come out as a grimace. Smiling wasn't something he did often and so he consciously had to think of how one smiled.

But it must have only scared her, and he berated himself furiously, when she averted her eyes.

Carefully, he put a hand to a side of her face- she flinched- and made her look into his eyes.

There was a swirl of confused emotions in the green eyes, but the most prominent sentiment was shame. Shame? What was she ashamed for? Or of? Of him?

"Isolde?" he asked.

Her eyes left his again, softly she shook her head.

"Tell me," he requested firmly.

"You think that I am a weak woman, who can't look after herself and constantly needs to be protected." Isolde still didn't raise her eyes.

"If I thought that I wouldn't be sitting here," he answered calmly with brutal honesty.

"You have never killed before," he added, a mere statement, his voice low.

"Yes," Isolde cried, life returning to her. "Doesn't that make me weak?"

"No," he said quietly. "It makes you a good person."

Isolde didn't look convinced. He laughed, a short, bitter sound.

"Killing," he said, "is a natural process in our world. Men are not better than animals. Only the strongest survive. And not to kill in this world is admirable and good."

"Who was the first you killed?" A quiet question and she didn't look at him.

"You are afraid?" he asked lowly.

"Not of you," she said slowly. "Please, tell me. I need to know."

"In Sarmatia, I killed members of other tribes we had a feud with. With my daggers or my bow."

He paused. Then he continued quietly:  
"I killed my first man with this sword in Britain. He was a Woad.A young boy, not much older than me at the time. Blue eyes, blond hair. I can still see the horror in his eyes."

"What happened?" She laid a cool hand on his arm. He shrugged it off, continuing quickly, not wanting to see the hurt in her eyes.

"Lohengrin died that day and if I had paid better attention, if I hadn't been so distraught over the death of that Inish ghost, of that Woad, he wouldn't have been killed. It was my fault and mine alone."  
Tristan stared in the dark Woods, his face impassive. But his eyes were troubled and almost vulnerable as he saw only the past.

Haltingly, nervously, her heart pounding wildly in her chest, she moved a hand to his cheek and stroked it. He stiffened immediately, moving away.

Isolde stared at him. To her own surprise, she felt angered.

"Why are you so hard on yourself?" she demanded forcibly."Why can't you just let it go for once?"  
He didn't reply and she was left staring at his back as he vanished in the forest with grand, angry strides. Sighing, she leaned against a tree and closed her eyes.

***

Meanwhile Tristan had stopped, not far away. Even if he was angry at her and at himself he would have never gone too far, aware of the possible vicinity of Romans.

He looked at his clenched fists.

_You fool. Why did you tell her about Lohegrin now? You're going soft. Now she probably pities you. _Tristan didn't want pity from anyone, especially not from her. He preferred the others keeping their fearful distance from him, preferred them thinking of him as a merciless killer, who didn't spare anyone, preferred them not to know anything about him. But Isolde had managed to look behind the façade. How, he wasn't sure, but with her, he felt so much at ease, he felt actually respected, like a human, not just like the scout, the loner, who didn't have anyone dear to him and who probably wouldn't want anyone. The way she had stroked his cheek- in this moment he had almost let himself go.

Isolde looked up, when he came out of the trees. His mood seemed to be only marginal better, a frown still creased his face.

She decided to ignore it. Cheerfully, she said:

"I made a fire and I dressed the deer you brought earlier."

He grunted, a monosyllabic sound and sat down, taking his part of the deer.

They didn't speak much- well, on Tristan's behalf nothing and on Isolde's part just a few words, which were always answered with other grunts.

But when dawn fell, she moved to his side. He paused in the thorough cleaning of his sword and gave her an unreadable look from hooded amber eyes.

She ignored the look and studied his hands instead. When he was finished with cleaning, she caught them in a firm grip and he didn't resist.

"You have strong hands," she murmured and ran her fingers over them.

He trembled involuntarily, when she traced the small scars on them. No one had touched him that affectionately in years.

"They are rough," he mumbled hoarsely, trying to pull them out of her grip.

She raised her eyes. "They are your hands and they belong uniquely to you. I think they are beautiful." She didn't add anything, just bent her head down again, engrossed in the study of his hands. He gazed at her dark head in wonder and a strange emotion rose up in him, that was soon swallowed up by regret. He had to leave. There was no other way.

And yet he wished…he wished…He hadn't wished for anything in years. So predictable that his only wish would be denied to him, and the one who denied it was he, himself.

"The monster within," he muttered quietly, so she couldn't hear and finally pulled his hands out of her grip. When she looked at him, he muttered gruffly: "You should sleep now."

"And you?" she challenged.

Again, she startled an on both sides unexpected, hoarse laugh out of him.

"Sleep," he said finally again.

Eventually, she nodded and curled up next to him. Soon her breathing evened out.

After a while, she moved and snuggled up at his side, her head dropping in his lap. With a small contended noise she slept on. He gazed at her in utter surprise, an unsual expression for Tristan. That would make leaving even harder. Softly, he ran a calloused hand through the dark cascade of hair, whispering ancient endearments in the language of a half-forgotten land with endless horizons to her, while she slept on, oblivious to it all.

* * *

She woke up in the next morning. Alone. Not even Tristan's dagger was lying next to her anymore. He had left her. She had known it, but…she was quick to stifle the helpless sob, that wanted to escape by biting her fingernails.

He had been kind. No man had ever been kind to her. She had cared so much. He had been hers. Her Tristan: Hers…and now she was never going to see him again.

His dark eyes, his warm arms, his calloused hands, his low laugh…An intense longing burnt in her chest, only intensified by the burning in her eyes.

This time she didn't hold back the sob and got up with aching limbs, almost missing the white flower, that was lying next to her foot. A token of his love? Well, hardly. His way of saying good-bye? More likely.

She took it.

She closed her eyes and stayed there, statuesque.

Somewhere nearby, a bird screeched, a lone desolate sound in the silence.

* * *

_Hey everyone!_

_Here is the new chapter. I hope you like it- and I also hope that you don't think Isolde is too dramatic. But I tried to make her seem realistic and I thought that was the way she would react. Please tell me if she's too unrealistic or if Tristanis OOC. And as always, Priestess I am eternally grateful, that you look over my chapters :D, really  
imagine getting a kilogram of that chocolate I described to you from me, you deserve it so much(-;  
_

_**Addicted2LancelotAndTristan**: thank you very much for your review- they always encourage me to continue this story._

_**la argentinita:** A new reviewer! Thank you for your review. Yes...sometimes I think he has cracked a long time ago too :D.. Isolde is quite right with that point, isn´t she?_

_ **Priestess:** oh yes...Tristanland sighs ... I am going to join you in that instant...and thanks that you think my English has become better..._

_**darkdestiny2000:** You´ll find out in this chapter. Thanks very much for your review(-;_

_**minorcadence: **Another new reviewer!I am really glad- thanks for your review. Do you think he has gotten too OOc in this chapter?_

_**Nebelelbin: **Danke für dein Review auf jeden Fall! Freut mich dass sie dir gefällt. Na dann,war auf jedenfall ne nette Überraschung und mich würds freuen wenn du wieder vorbei schaust :D _

_ Thanks to all of you! You are really great!  
-Sachita_


	9. The Crimson Tide

_Hi! So this is the revised version of chapter nine. I am not so happy about the title though (= Thanks a lot for the reviews you left for the previous version. I hope you like this one, too^^ Well, and ok, I have to admit, that this chapter had to undergo some radical changes, too...  
_

_Sachita_

_P.S.: The old review replies are, as usual, at the bottom. Thank you so much again for them!  
_

* * *

**9. The Crimson Tide  
**

*****  
**

„Galahad..." Arthur said, shooting a warning glare at the youngest knight.

"He won't appear out of the forest like a ghost. Tristan is _dead_." He put a heavy emphasis on the word. Galahad stared at him, clearly hurt, but Arthur knew that he had to be a little harsh with the boy now. Galahad had been annoying them with his juvenile accusations, that Tristan wasn't dead and that they just should have been looking more closely, a lot. So he had to know the boundaries.

"But Arthur…" Galahad protested. This earned him a sharp clout from Gawain and a growled: "Stop it boy," from the cantankerous Bedivere.

The four of them- Arthur, Galahad, Gawain and Bedivere were gazing out in the countryside, standing on the walltop and they had been doing so for a while.

And all because of Galahad's insistence, that this day, something would happen.

"I can feel it," he had insisted, dark eyes looking past them. "Today something is going to happen." And so they had come with him, Bedivere because he was bored, Gawain because of his urge to look after Galahad as if he was his little brother and Arthur because he had had some matters to clear up with the senior officer of the Wall Guards.

"Why do you care anyway?" Bedivere finally growled after some minutes of silence.

"It's not like you and Tristan were ever friendly with each other. I thought you hated him."

Galahad shook his dark locks uncomfortably. "I did not _hate _him," he explained haltingly.

"I just didn't understand him." Bedivere nodded grimly.

"We all didn't," he mumbled.

"Well, we should go now," Gawain said eventually.

"No!" Galahad cried and they shot him another confused look. He was definitely excited.

"Look!" he shouted, pointing to a very familiar horse, that was racing through the open gate, that was just being passed by some Roman Cavalry.

Jols chased after the horse, a truly amusing sight.

"Stop!" he shouted, waving his arms wildly. Byaczt, Tristan's horse, whinnied, and for a moment it looked to the knights standing on the wall, as if it was wearing an amused grin.

That did not astonish them, as the Sarmatians had always thought of their horses as sentient beings. "No!" Jols still shouted after the horse, which was, of course, unattainable as it had already covered a good portion of the way to the distant forest.

Jols slipped eventually and fell into the mud, clutching his left leg.

"Ouch! No! Damned horse!" he cursed darkly.

This had the knights howling with laughter. They stood there on the wall, holding onto each other and laughing like madmen, whilst Jols shot them scathing glares from his position on the ground.

Arthur, who tried to keep a straight face, helped the grumbling man finally up and lended him assistance, while he hobbled to the stables.

***

The piercing cry of a hawk made them all look up to the grey sky again. Galahad ran down to the stairs, intent on getting all of his brothers in arms to the wall-top.

By the time he returned with the rest of them, Gawain was leaning forward, blue eyes avidly scanning the horizon. "I think you were right, Galahad," he said eventually, an excited grin beginning to spread on his face. "Something is definitely happening."

"Tristan!" Dagonet yelled, pointing in the distance. His eyes shone with hope.

"You are out of your mind, all of you," Arthur mumbled sadly.

"No! Tristan! It's him!" Bors started to wave – "It's not as if he could see you from there," Lancelot grumbled- and by then, Arthur saw him too:

The dark silhouette of a distant rider on a white steed, galloping towards them.

Even if was still far away, they recognised that certain way of riding, that elegance that all Sarmatians possessed when it came to riding.

They weren't called "the horse people" for nothing, and they were proud of it.

They quickly ran down to the gate, enthusiasm gripping them. Someone whom they had thought to be dead was returning.

"Good to see that elusive, taciturn fool," Bors grumbled and they laughed, because they knew how Bors's comments should be received.

Then, they heard the shout of the Wall Guard: "Who are you? What are your intentions?"

The answer came shout and to the point, spoken with the hard accent of the people from the grasslands: "Tristan of Sarmatia, stationed under the command of Lucius Artorius Castus, open the gate."  
"Open the gate," Arthur ordered loudly, and apparently, the guard had heard it, for the gate was opened. In trotted the white horse with Tristan on its back.

The scout looked like that last fateful time they had seen him, down to the braids and the shaggy hair, except that he was a bit pale and the dark circles around his eyes spoke of exhaustion.

Other than that, his composure was as stoic as ever.

Of course they hadn't expected anything else and they would have been concerned if it had been different, because this was Tristan and they only knew him like that.

Tristan dismounted in a fluid motion and walked towards them, Byaczt's reins firmly held in a gloved fist.

He nodded to them, not saying a word. Finally Gawain, who had rediscovered his voice, shouted: "Tristan! Good to have you back alive!"

Tristan tilted his head to one side, giving him a questioning sideways glance.

Gawain grinned. _Our good ol' Tristan_, he thought.

Arthur looked at his scout curiously, glad to have his knight back.

"Tristan, you have to tell us, where you have been."

Tristan nodded his consent and went to the stables to rub his horse down.

Shaking his head, Lancelot looked after him and said:

"Never been one for many words, has he?"

Bors grinned. "Well, I'd be damned near worried, if he was all chatty like you."

* * *

The sun was leaving the island in a halo of crimson. Tristan had propped his hands up on the smooth stone surface of the wall and was staring over to the forest, which slowly darkened, deep in thought.

The Wall Guards didn't mind him and he didn't mind them. They were silent people, specifically chosen for this duty. Tristan respected them. He appreciated their quiet ways. They really were very respectable representatives of their Empire, Rome. Tristan didn't hate all Romans without second thought. There were fools in every land.

Yet, he still thought of Rome as the Empire, which had stolen him and his brother knights from their home country, the Empire, that had ravaged countless Sarmatian villages and the Empire, that was responsible for the death of his family.

Wearily, he gazed down at his battle-worn hands. Lately, he had felt it more often, that…weariness, this inexplicable exhaustion. Not limited to the physical aspect. It was more of a mental exhaustion. He felt restless and lethargic at the same time.

And she, she was everywhere. There, the green of the forest: her eyes. Here, the stone under his fingers: her cool touch on his feverish, burning skin. The red cape of Filius, one of the Wall Guards: red like her lips. The fur of his horse under his hands: soft like her skin.

The piercing cry of his hawk in his ears: to him, bittersweet, like her voice.

That fresh smell of apples after a rain shower: fruity, intense like the scent of her hair.

Shaken out of his thoughts by a quiet clang of a sword on an armour from somewhere in his proximity, he gazed once again at the Woods, this time more consciously.

The fading green of the forest in the dusk only served to remind him of her eyes again.

***

He sighed, an impatient gust of air and looked over to Filius.

The Roman's dark eyes were set on the horizon.

"Look," Filius said quietly.

Tristan followed his eyes.

The sun was awash in a crimson tide, clouds flanking it like agitated waves, whilst the dark blue of the night desperately tried to drown its red spark in a flood of star-spangled darkness.

"A bloody sunset." Filius's voice was but a hoarse whisper.

"Blood will be spilt soon," Tristan amended.

Filius nodded softly. "The question is- will it be ours?"

"It's not the mortals' decision on whom the sun will lower its crimson veil." Tristan's low voice filled the evening air and Filius quietly exhaled.

"There is wisdom in your words."

Tristan didn't reply. He pushed away from the wall and turned away.

"Good Night," Filius called.

"Aye," Tristan said lowly and disappeared in the night, a blue shadow lost under the stars.

The Roman's eyes turned back to gaze at the horizon, where the sun was nothing but a red strip on the horizon. The green of the forest had faded to black.

The night had finally won.

Tristan joined his comrades in the tavern. He came quietly, as usual, like a phantom.

With a quick, sharp look around he assessed the situation.

Lancelot had a blonde woman in his lap, he was toying drunkenly with her hair.

Dagonet was talking to Bors, Percival was sitting with an ale in front of the flickering golden fire, whilst Galahad and Gawain were entertaining themselves with a knife throwing contest.

***

Tristan made sure, that all of the other knights were accounted for, then he sat down next to Percival. He liked Percival and his honesty.

Percival was a philosopher, a thinker, someone who didn't seem to fit in the band of rough, battle-hardened men. He held his own in battle sure enough, but Tristan could have just as easily envision him sitting in front of a parchment with a feather in his hand.

He smiled, when Tristan sat down next to him. The fire reflected in his deep brown eyes and cast reddish, dancing shadows on his shaggy head of soft, golden hair.

For a while, they sat in peaceful silence and basked their faces in the warmth of the fire.

"Somehow I wonder," Percival eventually said softly, " if you left someone of importance there in Gaul."

Tristan wasn't surprised. He hadn't told the knights about…her, but Percival's talent for observation rivaled his own.

A small flash of surprise crossed the other's face, when Tristan did answer. The scout knew that the other hadn't expected him to answer, but he wished to know his insightful brother's opinion.

"Have you ever loved someone, Percival?" The question was an unexpected one, coming from him. Tristan knew that. His rough voice stumbled over the words.

Percival looked taken aback for a second. Then he laughed:

"Well, sometimes the wenches of the tavern."

Tristan allowed himself a little nod, recognising the bait. Percival had understood him well enough, but wouldn't let him off so easily without a forthcoming explanation.

Thus, he said: "I do not mean that kind of love."

Percival smiled eventually: "I know." Pensively, he stared into the blazing flames, the light of the fire making him seem older than he truly was.

"Love? What is love? It is something to rejoice at, something to despair at. It is a golden strand of hope in our poor lives. Love is something very precious, Tristan. If you have it, keep it, and never let it go. Love will repay it to you by staying at your side for eternity."

Tristan remained silent and Percival didn't say more. Percival was someone, the scout often talked more openly than with the others. Percival would never laugh at anyone, nor did he ever judge. The most important matter to Tristan was, though, that Percival respected his nature and did not try to hold him responsible for anything.

Percival's ways were silent, similar to Tristan's, but somehow altogether different.

None of the others kept such a fearful distance to him like they did to the scout, on contrary, when engaged in a conversation, he was a warm, friendly person.

Tristan, on the other hand, was dark, cynical and equipped with dry humor.

***

A faint smile of joyous anticipation crossed Percival's face and he turned to his friend.

"Tell me, Tristan, what are you going to do in a few years, when we return home?"

Tristan was silent for a long time. Then, when Percival thought that he wasn't to receive an answer, the silent scout said slowly and with a deadly certainty, that made the other knights look up in wary notice:

"I know I am not going to see Sarmatia again. I am to die before it."  
The knights stared on the floor, the wenches on their laps forgotten. Tristan wasn't one to jest.

It was Galahad, who eventually broke the silence, and if Tristan was surprised, that out of all knights, it was Galahad to speak up, Galahad, who usually avoided talking to the scout because he was disturbed by his ways, he didn't show it.

Galahad asked hesitantly: "And how do you know?"

In the blue twilight of the tavern and the dancing, golden shadows of the fire, Tristan's eyes were glittering like dark gems.

With his own air of mystery, he replied just as slowly as before:

"How does a deer know, it has to run, when it hears something in the forest? How does a horse know it has to graze in order to survive?"

And before Galahad had comprehended Tristan's words, the scout had risen from his seat and had vanished in the shifting shadows like a blue-tinted ghost.

* * *

_Hi everyone!_

_Thank you for reading and reviewing my story, all of you!_

_**Priestess:** You know what happens now, don´t you?  
Well, as always:Thank you! Oh yes, France was quite good...the food too, although the people there eat at so strange times. Well, at least for me. If anyone here is French, I don´t want to offend someone. really not. Yes (-;...who doesn´t want to switch places with Isolde ...  
and thanks for your review, of course :D _

_**darkdestiny2000:** Thanks for your review. Yes...I think that too._

_**la argentinita:** Thank you for your feedback. Well, if and when he´ll come back to her, that´s a surprise. Don´t worry (-;..._

_ **Addicted2LancelotAndTristan**: thank you for your like this chap too, I hope._

_**Randomisation:** thanks too, for your review, you think that´s Tristan´s way? beams  
Thanks, I am not always sure if his character is alright in my story, not too OOC and such._

_**minorcadence:** Wow, thanks for your quite long review! So many questions...  
You´ll see, you´ll see. Although I don´t think she´ll turn into a warrior princess, in my opinion, she isn´t someone who can kill others without second thought. I sometimes can´t express myself properly in English and I am sorry for it. But you understand me, don't you? looks hopeful_

_Thank you!  
_

_Many greetings, Sachita_


	10. Branwaine's Lament

_Hi! This is the revised version of chapter ten. I didn't change a lot. Thank you very much for the kind reviews!_

_-Sachita  
_

* * *

**Branwaine's Lament**

***

It is a cold day today yet it is not the weather I am speaking of, for the weather is moved by forces greater than us mere humans.

No. The cold, that encompasses me, comes from another source. And even now, as my arms are submerged to the elbow in frigid water and mechanically follow the motions I have known for years- washing dirty laundry is something you get taught early- and even as the dog around me are chased around by dirty children and their mothers' cries penetrate the afternoon air- even then I cannot help but think about this cold. It's bale.

Bale is in the air and its cold fingers are steadily approaching. I can feel it in the way the leaves rustle in the wind. Bale was in the air today morning, when I was called to Troucetes, my Lady's father.

I shouldn't call her Lady. She has told me not to do so many times, yet it is habit not easy to reliniquish. She is still the princess, a Lady of noble descent, the daughter of the chieftain. Even if I am alone with her, it still can get difficult. Once you have been a servant, is like forever being a servant, I was once told.

But when the Lady, yet at the same time my best and oldest friend hears that from my mouth, she always gets angry. "Isolde. It's just Isolde!" she will snap at me. She is a fine lady, the…no…Isolde, and she doesn't deserve the treatment I have bestowed upon her the last weeks, but when I saw her with that…Tristan…the feeling of bale was there once again.

Yes, he had that mysterious air around him and I must admit, he's the first man I ever thought to be fitting for Isolde. But bale was there, and bale remained firmly there, every time, I stared at them. It seemed to circle right above their heads, like a vulture, ready to snap at them, whenever it chooses to.

Ready to strike, ready to **_kill_**.

That's why I have been so harsh to her, in the passing weeks. Tristan is gone, now. Sometimes I think, that's the reason why she's so sad. She doesn't speak much and her bright spirit has been dampened. More and more, she's becoming what her father has always wanted her to be: a shy subordinate with no other wishes than to obey him.

You see, she and I weren't like a servant and a maid, but like the best of friends you can imagine. My mother taught us the old ways, how to collect herbs and how to apply them, yet Isolde has always had more skill as a healer than me. Together, we learned to swim in the wild waves of the sea.

***

Today morning when I stood there, right before the king in the hall of stones, the feeling of bale, which clustered itself in the hall was breathtaking.

I could almost see it then, like a dark, everything engulfing darkness, that makes the heart freeze.

"Branwaine", the king began to speak. I was afraid, I admit that, yes. After all I am nothing but a simple maid and the king can do everything he desires with me without justifying himself. He's a frightening man, Isolde's father.

A giant with both sword and words, but harsh and strict in his character so unlike Isolde, who is like the mild dew on the grass in the early morning and her mother, who had been like the calm sunrise. In contrary to the two of them, he is like the heated sun at midday.

I was shaken out of my thoughts when he gruffly ordered me to tell him everything

I knew about Tristan.

I lied, though I have the sinking feeling that he has been nursing suspicions about my Lady and him and I fear for them, having seen myself the love that was between them, even if they didn't realise it. A servant often sees more than most people would think. Friends do too.

Soon after the king had asked me several questions, he grunted, dissatisfied with my lack of responsiveness and called for Isolde herself.

My just Lady entered, and she stood straight and with a certain pride in front of the Lord, her father. "Sit down," he commanded and obeying, she sank down on a wooden bench in front of the king. I stood behind her, and though she didn't show it openly, I saw in the stiffness of her shoulders and her slight shivering that she was afraid of him.

Oh, how I wished to help her then, all my grudges forgotten.

***

However I couldn't do anything but watch.

Troucetes glared at his daughter and she met his unwavering gaze without flinching. Some when, in the midst of that silent staring match, I let my thoughts wander.

Troucetes, the king isn't very fond of his daughter. He was once a nice young man, my grandmother used to tell me, when he met his wife, Isebail. He loved her a great deal, my grandmother said.

Soon she got pregnant and the whole court awaited the day when the child would be born with eagerness. But it was only a mere girl, the king was crestfallen.

Two years later, Isebail was pregnant again and the king was joyous, when the seers prophesied that this time the child would be a boy.

Bale stroke soon after, the child was born dead and Isebail, the chieftain's beloved wife, died as well.

The chieftain got bitter and bad-tempered. His youthful face became lined and his beard grey, as did his hair. His little daughter he sent to live with one of Isebail's servants, who had a little daughter too. Me. We lived in a cottage next to the sea and Isolde and I soon became the best friends, you see. We bathed together in the sea, jumped through the waves and built castles of sand on the beach. Almost always, we stuck together and shared our secrets.

Two years ago, she got an order from the king to gather her belongings together and move to the great stone hall in the centre of the Gallic village, the King's house.

Isolde was reluctant to go and hesitated. I could understand her so well, aye. Even if that man was her father, he had deserted her, never came once to visit her. What kind of father is that? Sometimes she told me that she'd rather have no father at all and instead me as her sibling. I had always told her, that if she wanted me to be, I could be her sister.

And she is my sister. She will always be my sister.

I was shaken out of my thoughts again, when I heard Isolde say forcefully, "I won't."

"Yes you will" another voice cut in, smooth like a brandished knife, that kind of voice, which makes shivers run down your spine.

I looked up, startled. Opposite of my dear Lady and next to her father stood another man, who had come out of the shadows to join us.

A Roman. _Roman._ I backed away, quickly. He was a quite friendly looking man, with smooth black hair and blue, light eyes, that Roman, but I could decipher that hint of ice under his friendly exterior, which you always recognise on dangerous persons.

I stumbled backwards, memories in my head, of Romans killing Gauls. Killing my mother.

Killing my cousin. Romans, killing. A red cloak. Red blood on unseeing faces.

A metallic helmet. Daggers made out of steel and swords. CLANG! I spun around. A silver helmet was lying in front of me, next to it a red cloak.

***

"Be so kind, order your servant to bring those away" The sweet voice again.

Red. Blood. Silver. Sword. Blood. On my mother's body. I stumbled backwards, assaulted with the horrific images of my family's death. I must have fallen, for the next thing I remember is staring dazedly up at the ceiling.

A scream of rage could be heard from both the Roman and Isolde's father. The king strode over to me, grabbed me by my long hair and threw me to the ground. I could see him raise his sword. In the same moment, someone threw himself on top of me, shielding me with his body. It was Isolde.

In the last moment her father paused, staring disbelievingly in his daughter's eyes.

"What have you done? She is nothing but a servant!"

"She's my best friend." I could dimly hear Isolde's voice.

Slowly, I was slipping into darkness. Isolde must have stood up, because I felt a weight being lifted off me. I tried to stand up then, but my wobbly legs didn't obey my weak mind. Soon, someone gently picked me up and half carried, half pulled me out of the room.

Isolde. Again. Confused, I heard her tell her father, that they would continue this talk later. I wanted to tell Isolde, that I was far too heavy for her, but my sluggish mind didn't manage that. Instead I went completely limp and blacked out, only quietly hearing her mumbled swear.

I woke up later. Someone was bathing my head with a cool cloth.

"Isolde" I croaked. "My Lady."

Isolde's concerned face appeared in front of mine." Hush," she said soothingly.

"Sleep now, Branwaine. I'll be fine, I promise you."

She is such a wise person, Isolde, she knew I what wanted to ask her this even before I could pose my question.

At my surprised look, she just smiled at me and said again: "Rest now. Rest." Obediently, I lay down and closed my eyes.

I do not know what is happening in the great hall. As soon as I woke up again, I started to do the assignments I had to do, being a simple maid.

***

Many of my nights are haunted by the same dream.

I dream I am frozen to a spot and Isolde stands some meters before me. In front her feet is a dark abyss and on the other side of this abyss, Tristan is standing. He stretches his arm out and she leans closer to grasp it. Suddenly, the stones under her feet are beginning to crumble. I scream her name and try to reach her. But I am frozen to the spot and can only watch how she falls in there, pulling Tristan with her. And me, I am still standing on the spot, frozen, watching her disappear.

I always wake up screaming and screaming after those dreams.

Not one of the other servants wants to be in a room with me because I have these dreams.

I have learned to suppress the dreams of the Romans by shoving a fist in my mound and biting on it, till it is bloody.

But those other dreams, about her and Tristan I can't suppress.

Of course she is never going to see him again, I try to reassure myself. But the fact that bale was in the air hasn't disappeared. Something will happen, I am sure of that. But I am afraid I don't know whether it is good or bad. And for now, as I stare into the frigid water and still in my movements I can't help but hope that she will be alright. It is silent, now. The cries of the children have stopped. No doubt they have been assigned to do their multiple chores, as it is a hard life that we lead and everyone has to contribute. However, I cannot help but welcome you, silence.

And it is you, silence, that I bestow my anxious thoughts upon and I hope that you keep them safe.

Branwaine stared at the water for a while longer, then she gathered the laundry up and moved away. Soon she had disappeared beyond some wind-blown birches.

* * *

Isolde made her way again towards the great stone hall. Her father looked stonily at her, as did the Roman.

After a while of dangerous silence she shifted uncomfortably on her feet.

At last her father spoke. "Daughter, you are going to marry Marcellus Aurelius. He is a lord in Britain and you will be the price for the pact with Rome."

"I am what?" she gasped. The black-haired Roman smiled at her. It didn't reach his eyes.

"My Lady; I am your betrothed's servant. Filius is my name and I am happy to offer my services to you."

But Isolde didn't even look at him. Her eyes were fixed on Troucetes, the Gaul high king.

"And you, my Lord you believe this nonsense? You know what happened to other cultures that too made a similar pact with Rome? Their children are taken away by the hands of the Romans, to become slaves of the empire. Most of them aren't going to see their families again. Do you want to do this to our people too? To see their children leave with tear-filled eyes, to know that they'll be treated like rubbish by Rome, that they won't be nothing but a name on a parchment in Rome's eyes? _Do you want those Gauls to die alone in a foreign land, where no one is there to care about them, where they don't have anyone who loves them?_" The last sentence was a scream.

Her father however, just said calmly: "I wasn't finished, Isolde. You are to travel to Britain on a ship. Marcellus Aurelius has graciously offered that you can travel on one of his ships. At the coast, some Roman commander, I think his name was something along the lines of Artor...Artan…"

The Roman interrupted quickly: "Artorius Castus, to be exact, yes, and his Sarmatian Knights."

"Yes, Artorius Castus. He'll escort you to your future residence since your husband-to-be has more important matters to attend. You'll start your voyage tomorrow."

Isolde nodded numbly and stood up stiffly. She quietly left the room, the lusty glances of Filius and an icy glare from her father following her.

* * *


	11. First impressions of Britannia

_Hello everyone!Thank you so much for your reviews, the answers are on my profile._

_Priestess of the Myrmidon: Thanks a lot for looking over the story again :D !_

_I hope all of you you like this chapter...sachita (-;_

_Disclaimer: The movie King Arthur belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer & Co._

* * *

**11. First Impressions of Britannia **

*******

Golden dusk was steadily gathering around dark forests, as the morning sun slowly rose.**  
**

Isolde breathed in the fresh morning air and looked at her surroundings. So this was Britannia. A land so different from her home country. She missed the wind-blown birches and the Gallic swamplands. The first thing to greet her had been white, harsh cliffs and they had passed them, anchoring in a haven with still, lilac water. Branwaine and her had got off of the ships only to be greeted by dark forests in the distance, glaring at them from beyond some green hillocks. It was a beautiful country, yet she wished that she was anywhere else but here, here, where she felt like a bird with cut wings, sitting in a golden cage and traded as if she were only a pouch full of gold.

In a few hours she would meet this Artorius Castus and his knights. Artorius and his Sarmatian knights. Tristan was from Sarmatia, he had told her, she remembered that now. But she wished for her sake that he wouldn't be with her escort. Everything would be harder if he was there.

Isolde didn't want to experience that bittersweet attraction to him again; right then she was already miserable enough and didn't want to add more misery to her mind.

Isolde stared at the clouded sky and wished that it would rain. Rain was like tears, like quick-falling tears, she couldn't afford to cry.

Soon enough, it rained as Isolde had hoped. Isolde closed her eyes, letting the rain soak her to the bone. Next to her, the crewmen were busy unloading goods from the ship, all the while cursing loudly. Isolde just stood there and bowed her head. In her everything wanted to scream, to get rid of these useless ropes that were invisible to the eyes and held her tight.

She didn't know how long she stood there.

Her hair cloth was drenched and her hairdo was slowly disintegrating. Isolde didn't notice. She stood there numbly and watched the vain fight of a beetle to get out of a puddle.

After a while of watching the beetle not succeeding in its attempts, she picked the beetle gently up with a leaf and put it down on a tree trunk. Isolde sighed. She had rescued this beetle and it had been easy,

But who would rescue her? No, Isolde shook her head. She would have to do it herself and it was impossible to do so.

She was cursed to live a loveless life in golden chains, a life with someone whom she didn't know, but whom she despised more and more with each passing minute.

On the long ship journey she had sometimes entertained her girlish fantasies about Tristan coming and taking her away to a far, far land where they could both live in peace. Of course Isolde knew that this were the dreams of a foolish girl. The dreams of the foolish girl she had once been before they had come and forced her to grow up and see reality.

And Isolde knew reality all to well. Though sometimes it was so damned easy to shut the world out and live in her own little, peaceful world where everybody was happy.

In Isolde's world, everybody was happy and if they weren't in sombre reality, Isolde thought about what could have been. Sometimes when she was little, her mother had called her "my little dreamer". But those were happy times from long, long ago and Isolde barely remembered them. Occasionally she thought that happiness was a big pastry with many ingredients. Some people got more from this pastry, some got nothing.

And Isolde sometimes wished herself to have only a small piece of it. She knew that her life could be far worse, and that she was already lucky to have food and some influence, that she was a princess. Luck however, was just luck.

Happiness, well, that was something entirely different. Happiness, that was like swimming in the sea with Branwaine when they were younger or talking with Tristan, hearing his genuine laugh, seeing his dark eyes sparkle.

Isolde shook her head slowly once again. It couldn't be and she knew it.

Some were meant to get a piece from this pastry and it wasn't Isolde's place to decide who got one and who didn't. Besides she didn't even know if Tristan remembered her. Perhaps he was grateful to her, but of course she couldn't expect him to be as attracted to her as she was to him.

Isolde blushed a bit when she thought about the time they had been on that little clearing. She remembered their kiss. His lips had been warm and inviting… She angrily shook her head. _No, Isolde, stop this. You're betrothed. Stop thinking about Tristan! Stop it. Stop it. You're making this harder for yourself._

She didn't want to have these feelings for him; she had never wished for them to appear.

But they were there and she couldn't deny them, no matter how hard she tried . Growing up, Isolde had always imagined finding a nice Gallic man, marrying him, getting children...Maybe even all of them surviving... But instead all that she got was tragedy.

She was marrying a man that she didn't even know who was a Roman, Gaul's enemy, and she was in love with another man, who probably wasn't in love with her, who was unpredictable, merciless and swift in battle.

Yes, perhaps Tristan even liked it, the fighting. This useless bloodshed. She had seen the feral glint in his eyes when he had killed those Romans who had threatened her and could only imagine what it was like to meet him on the battlefield.

She didn't want to know. Nevertheless she had hopelessly fallen for him, quickly. Isolde had never imagined it to be like that. She had imagined falling in love to be a slow process, that lasted over years. But in her life, it seemed that nothing was simple or slow.

However she had also seen his other face. Tristan had a good, but black humour and he often made her laugh because he made his dry remarks out of the blue with such a straight face that it just was not normal.

Isolde started to shiver in her wet clothes and hugged her arms around her torso. Nevertheless, she just stood there, reliving her memories as if she was just experiencing them.

Tristan…yes. It wasn't easy to figure him out.

His face was always void of all emotion, and he was nearly impossible to read. But sometimes when he had looked at her, she had imagined seeing a certain warmth in her eyes, a caring look in his eyes. Even if it had probably only her vivid fantasy, Isolde had loved this look and had warmed herself at it, like a wanderer who had had a long way in a snow storm, until he reached a fire.

She had known him only for some months, but it seemed that this short period of time had been enough to drown in his knowing deep eyes, to remember the sparkle in his eyes, when he laughed, yes…to fall in love with him.

No. She had to finish that now. It didn't help anything to think about someone whose love she could never gain and whom she would see never again. Isolde had to focus on her marriage now. Oh, how she loathed it.

She closed her eyes. Her farewell from her father, Troucetes hadn't been very heartfelt.

* * *

"_Well then…I guess goodbye, daughter" he had said, sounding a bit embarrassed._

_Was it because he sold her off like a piece of livestock, his own daughter?_

_She shook his hand coldly and said quite formally, "Yes, farewell, my Lord."_

_She noticed that he winced a bit at this address but that only made her feel satisfied. Her few feelings of sympathy for her father had completely vanished in the moment,in which he had told her she would be sent like a present to this Roman Lord._

_Perhaps this Roman had only agreed to take her because she was quite pretty. Yes, Isolde knew that she was considered pretty by many, though she herself didn't give care about it in the slightest- had it ever brought her luck? No, it had only destroyed her life,over and over again. Her father was using her looks for his own advantage and she was not surprised. Had he ever cared for her? Probably not, but all feelings of bitterness she might have once had vanished like smoke. She looked at the man on the throne and felt nothing. Without further words, she turned around and walked away.  
_

_Once she was out of the room Troucetes sighed and lowered his head with a feeling that was similar to shame, but Isolde didn't look back.

* * *

_

"Isolde…Gods!" someone gasped suddenly next to her. Isolde turned to see Branwaine standing there, her eyes wide and concerned. Without waiting for a word of protest, her friend pulled her firmly under a sort of cave made out of wood and stones that had been built by the seamen for her and Branwaine, as a provisional shelter till the carriage that should bring them to Isolde's betrothed's castle arrived.

"What did you think standing in the rain like that, my Lady?" chided Branwaine angrily, while she removed Isolde's cloak and her upper layers of clothing.

Isolde didn't answer. A heavy sleepiness suddenly came over her, and she felt like her feet wouldn't carry her any longer. Everything blurred before her eyes and absently she slipped in another dress which Branwaine held out to her.

She was glad that she and Branwaine were friends once more. The icy silence that had been between them for some time had been unbearable and Isolde had once more realized how important the other girl was to her and what sort of good friend she was.

Drowsily, she looked over to Branwaine who lit a fire. She forced herself to stand up and help her, though her whole body felt terribly numb.

She shivered once more and thought this was odd, since her arms were warm.

Branwaine saw her trying to get up and gave her a glare. "No, my Lady, you lie back down this instant. NOW."

Isolde obeyed, too tired to care. Once she had done so, Branwaine came over and covered her with furs, which she had gotten who-know-where. A moment later Isolde felt Branwaine's cool hand on her forehead.

"By the gods! You have a fever, my Lady."

"Don't call me my Lady, Branwaine." Isolde murmured, already feeling how a comforting drowsiness crept upon her once more. Tiredly, she forced her eyes open again and realised, that there weren't any different furs or blankets there anymore. Good, caring Branwaine had given Isolde all the blankets and not even left one for herself!

"Branwaine, come under the furs as well. There's enough place for three of you."

"But, my- Isolde I can't do this."

Isolde murmured exasperated, "Yes you can, Branwaine. What kind of friend would I be, if I'd let you sleep out in the cold there? Besides, you know, I am not a lady, but your friend."

Branwaine seemed to hesitate once more. Although she couldn't see her expression, because her eyes were closed, Isolde could imagine it vividly.

"But, Isolde, isn't it enough that one of us is ill already?"

Isolde only smiled. "You won't get ill, trust me," she whispered hoarsely."You will only get ill if you continue standing around in the cold."  
Branwaine laughed a little and finally slipped under the heavy furs next to Isolde.

"I will take all the blame if you get ill," Isolde's voice was only a drowsy murmur now, her face flushed with fever and her dark hair sticking to her face.

"Good night, Isolde," Branwaine quietly replied. She heard Isolde's regular breathing, realizing that she was fast asleep. _My poor friend, _she thought and looked concernedly at the other woman.

_She doesn't deserve any of this._

_

* * *

  
_

On the next day, Isolde's fever was down and therefore, when the promised carriage arrived, they finally departed to a Roman settlement, which was only a few miles away. Nearby, they would meet Arthur and his knights.

**And **his knights. Isolde wished the messenger would have left that part out of his tale.

**And **his knights. Hell, why did she fuss over that fact so incredible much? It wasn't automatically a given that Tristan was there as well. He was under the command of that Arthur, she knew, but he didn't have to be there as well, though it would only be logical if he was.

And if he really was, nevertheless there was no reason for her to be that nervous- hadn't she just agreed with herself to forget him? But to do so wasn't as easy as it seemed since she was in love with that fool of a Sarmatian knight, who didn't know that.

No, no fool. A man with such deep eyes…

Isolde cursed filthily and Branwaine giggled.

"You know what Chemera would say now?"

She imitated the old, strict woman with the loud, shrill voice who had taught both of them about the Gallic traditions and who had also seen to their education:

"No, No, Isolde the gods will be **very **angry if you use such foul words. No, no. Bad Isolde. No, no. You see, in nearer future a stone will fall from heaven and hit bad girls who use naughty and bad words. No, no Isolde. No foul curses."

Isolde started to laugh and Branwaine joined in carefully, glad that she heard Isolde laugh again, she hadn't done it for months. But after an instant, her friend sobered up and Branwaine anxiously followed her eyes.

The carriage was coming. Some Roman soldiers accompanied it. Isolde gave Branwaine´s shoulder a reassuring squeeze when she saw that her eyes had considerably widened at the sight of the Romans with their red crests on the silver helmets, the red cloaks and the metallic chest plates.

Branwaine smiled feebly and gave Isolde in return an encouraging smile. She thought that Isolde was probably feeling as much out of place as she did. The carriage had almost reached them now.

A Roman officer on a white horse stopped in front of them and asked with a deep, authoritative voice: "Lady Isolde?"

"That is me." Isolde stepped forwards and stood like a statue in her simple brown dress with the beige pinafore in front of the Roman, who nodded at her. "I am Aulus Deodatus and I'll escort you to the meeting place, where you shall meet Artorius Castus, who will escort you to your future husband's estate, Princess."

Branwaine had tried to do Isolde's hair in Roman style, but Isolde had opened them quickly again and declared her, that they were Gauls and wouldn't even try to adjust themselves to Roman customs. After all, so she had said further, they weren't here willingly and Branwaine had finally agreed. So Isolde stood there then in front of the Romans in her traditional clothing and with her hair in the simple two braids, which were pinned up at both sides of her head.

The look on her face was full of pride and self-confidence and Branwaine tried to appear as confident, even if it was hard for her to look in the eyes of those Romans and not try to think of the grief they had caused. She remembered it as if it had been yesterday.

* * *

_Branwaine happily skipped along the usual little path right through the forest she always used._

_Everything was as usual, everything was alright. She felt the moss under her naked feet and almost chuckled, noting that she had forgotten to slip into her shoes, which were still in her hand._

_Around that corner was her village, she knew. Just around the few big trees and the rocks before her and she would see it. Yes, as usual. But why was the world swimming in front of her eyes now? Why did she have that horrid feeling of dread in her stomach?_

_A knot formed in her throat. A tight one. She was smelling something. A lingering smell of something burning._

_**Smoke**. _

_She ran like she had never run before. She felt like a haunted deer. Her thoughts were tumbling in her head._

_When she came around the corner, she froze. The houses patiently made out of wood and loam were burning. _

_Slowly, almost dumbly she stared at the house before her. Had helped to built this one- had needed time to do so. A year, almost. Now it was burning. Burning, so light that Branwaine had to turn her eyes away. She looked to the ground. Lying there was a coat. _

_It was red, blood red. _

_**Blood.**_

_She started screaming and screamed , and screamed and screamed. _

_**Pain.**_

_This was all she could think about. Hot, sharp, blinding pain. The bodies of her family were lying behind the corner, which she had rounded frantically, searching for someone living, something, that could help her._

_That was when she started to scream again. Scream, staring into the unseeing eyes of her dear mother. Her cousin was lying nearby, her mother's long greying blond hair falling in soft waves over her little cousin's body, her arm draped over the young child, as if she had tried to protect her. Branwaine fell to her knees and sobbed, without making a sound. When she raised her eyes once again, she noticed a silvery object a few metr__e__s away. A helmet. A sword. A shield. Broken lances._

_Roman lances. _

**Romans.**

_

* * *

_

Wrenched out of her thoughts by the whinny of a horse, she found herself staring right into the eyes of a Roman soldier next to the carriage. He had dark eyes, which were almost black and he looked just like Branwaine would have described the typical Roman.

But his eyes were not unfriendly, yes, they seemed to have a certain warmth in them. Of course that was not the truth. It was a Roman. Romans were her enemies. Evil, ruthless, children-slaying monsters. Rome, an Empire so great, yet so cruel.

But those eyes seemed to challenge her to say something. To throw some harsh words in their owner's direction. Branwaine shook her head, a silent _no _and went after her La- no, Isolde, who had already seated herself in the carriage.

The whole time while they made their way to the meeting point no word was exchanged between the two girls. Branwaine could almost feel the nervousness radiating off Isolde in waves. She wondered why Isolde was that worried.

They would only meet this Arthur…and his knights. Those men would be their escort and they would probably never see them again.

The matter of Isolde's betrothed on the other hand…Branwaine sighed heavily. She had asked one of the crewmen about the man Isolde was to marry.

"Oh, hell," the man had said." I wouldn't want to have any business with that man." Branwaine had watched somewhat fascinated and disgusted at the same time how the man took a deep breath and spat over the wooden railing in the troubled sea.

"A cruel one, that one is, aye… lassie, there is rumours, there is, that many come to him and never"- he had lowered his voice to a menacing whisper,"do they appear again."

Branwaine had looked to the sky at these words and had found that the friendly weather from some minutes ago had changed to a grey mix of clouds. A steady drizzle of rain had started and the grizzled seaman had looked at her meaningfully.

A bad omen and she had gasped for air, as the feeling of bale assaulted her again.

Snapping out of her thoughts she concentrated on the bumpy carriage ride and the troubled expressions chasing across her Lady's face.

***

At the same time Isolde stared out of the carriage, looking at the mists which covered the woods. In Gaul everything was much lighter. Not so…dark and unfriendly. Far, far away she could see a number of small houses appear.

"That's the Roman Town" a Roman soldier said suddenly from outside through the small window, startling Isolde half to death.

He added hastily, "The Commander sent me to tell you this." She gave a thin, polite half-smile, nodded and noticed then that the soldier had locked eyes with Branwaine, who had recognized in him the very soldier she had seen earlier.

There wasn't anything bad in his eyes. No, Isolde even noticed a certain warmth in his eyes.

She chuckled quietly, when she noticed that neither Branwaine nor the soldier made an attempt to give up their silent glaring match. Isolde grinned. That would be fun…she made a small sound, causing the Roman look up surprised.

"Sorry?" he asked.

"I was wondering whether we did catch your name, Sir. I believe we didn't and it would be quite the pity to depart without knowing the name of our honourable defender."

The Roman smiled and Isolde almost expected him to tell them his name by then with the same arrogance all the Romans had. But instead of that he said with a half-grin. "I believe you are taunting me, Milady. My name is Flavius Gnaeus, always at your service, my Ladies."

He sketched a bow on his horse and almost fell sideways from the saddle. Branwaine chuckled softly and Flavius glared comically at her, which only caused her to chuckle again.

"And what is your name, my fair lady?" Flavius questioned, and fluttered his eyelashes.

"Branwaine." The reply was stiff, mechanical.

"That's a beautiful name." This time nothing ridiculing was in his voice.

Branwaine noticed it too and was immediately back to her former shy self. She stammered a soft, "Thank you my Lord."

Flavius became aware of her sudden stiffness and nodded curtly at them:

"Have a nice journey."

"Wait" Branwaine called quickly after him.

He turned. "Yes?"

"You and your comrades, will you stay with us too?"

He looked a bit surprised, but nodded finally. "Some of us, me included, will stay a short while longer, since we're on our way to Hadrian's Wall where we are stationed in the same fort as Centurion Artorius Castus and his knights. So we will accompany you until we get to the crossroads."

He rode close to their carriage then and Isolde took the opportunity to ask him, what he knew of Artorius and his knights.

Flavius considered this question for a while and answered then:

"I don't meet them so often, but I got the same impression that most of Britannia's inhabitants have; Arthur is the greatest man I have ever met. His Sarmatians are fearless warriors, yet they hold great hate in their hearts for many Romans, except for their leader Arthur, for whom they would go through fire and water.

I can understand that they dislike Rome, as do you Gauls, I suppose, but you know, it isn't automatically given that every Roman is bad. There are some fools in our nation, but we are all humans. Many of us are honourable people." From the way his eyes sparkled, it was clear whom he was referring to.

After he had ended, the two ladies looked a while to the ground, thinking about his words. Finally Isolde asked, "What else is there to know of Arthur and his knights?"

He laughed. "My, my, a curious one, aren't we?" He cleared his throat in order to keep himself from laugh out loud, when he saw Branwaine's warning expression. By Pollux, that girl had a glare.

"Well, I meet them sometimes, thus I know a bit about some of them and their names. No, no my memory isn't that good," he grinned cheekily when he saw their surprised looks ,"as I said, I only know some of them."

He took a deep breath."There is, of course, Lancelot, whom the Ladies love and who loves the Ladies, Dagonet, the quiet one…" Names after names followed and Isolde listened only again, when she heard Tristan's name. "…a scary one, Tristan. He is the scout of the group and his only companions are his hawk and his horse. I think he prefers the solitude and the isolation of the nature. I wouldn't want to get on his bad side."

Flavius wrinkled his brow: "That's all I know about them." He stared at Branwaine for a while longer, then with a sudden, short nod and a hard expression on his face, he spurred his horse.

Brawnaine looked after him, but Isolde only stared on the dirty, wooden underground of the carriage.

_Great, Isolde. Just great. Fall in love with the scariest of the whole lot. _She stared out of the window. The houses were only about hundred meters away now, but they passed them and approached a big oak, where some rugged riders waited for them.

Arthur and his knights. They had to be.

But there was no Tristan. For a moment she was disappointed, then chided herself and knew she should be glad about it.

In the distance another rider appeared, his appearance as rugged as that of the others.

Isolde could see his face then and…froze. No. It couldn't be.

* * *


	12. Ewig Winter

Disclaimer: I don't own the movie king Arthur. It only belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer&Co.

_The old poem is owned by no one- since no one really knows the author.  
It has existed since the middle age, if anyone should wonder about the strange German..._

* * *

I am really very, very sorry that I didn´t update for ages. I don´t really have an excuse, only that I was long away from a computer, since I was on holidays (-:... Thanks so much for reviewing, I am so glad all of you like the story and I hope you like this chapter as well. Sachita (-:

p.s. Thanks as always to Priestess for looking over the chapter, you are the best ! (-;

p.p.s.: I have posted the answers to the reviews on my profile...thank you again for them!

* * *

**12. Ewig Winter (1)**

*****  
**

Tristan stopped next to the Roman with the red cloak, who was presumably Arthur.

Isolde had calmed herself a bit and was now watching with great interest what was taking place a few hundred metres away from her.

They came nearer and she could see, that he obviously reported something to Arthur.

After all, he was their scout, wasn't he?

Then she had to squint her eyes a bit, when she saw, that he was grimacing and grabbing his arm shortly. Had he managed to injure himself once more? Isolde resisted the temptation to roll her eyes and felt immediately how the nervous butterflies in her stomachs started to move again.

She was afraid- and she was even a bit astonished at that.

After all they had only met by coincidence and- Isolde scowled, suddenly angry at herself. It was no use to think about it now. She had to face the knights.

She stood up and removed the tattered curtain from the carriage.

Ignoring the outstretched hand of the Roman commander, that had been escorting them until now, she jumped to the ground and stepped calmly over to this…Artorius, who had gotten off his horse as well.

He bowed before her: "My Lady Isolde." Isolde looked at him, trying to get a general gist of his character by gazing at him. He was a handsome man, who had presumably seen about thirty summers. His hair was the trademark Roman black and it was slightly curled. He was quite tall and sun- bronzed. He seemed to fit in the usual image of a Roman commander quite well, if it hadn't been for his eyes who were strikingly green and who looked at her now quite penetratingly and kindly, almost.

Artorius Castus also had the air of someone who was used to giving orders and not following them, but, as Isolde noticed, he also seemed to have that certain something, which you only see with outstanding people.

Arthur carried himself in a self-assured posture, at which you really could notice, that he considered his men as equals.

Isolde liked him immediately- and understood a bit more of Tristan's obvious loyalty towards him.

Raising her eyes again to meet Arthur's she shook his hand. "I am glad to meet you finally, Artorius Castus." This time her smile was genuine.

***

She looked past him to the knights, who stood next to their horses. Looking back at Arthur, she asked him, whether he would introduce her to his knights.

Arthur smiled too. "It would be a pleasure to acquaint you to my men."

Isolde followed him over to the knights and the terrible dread in her stomach was ever present again. "This is Galahad" Arthur said. Galahad was a young one, probably the youngest of all the knights with curly, dark hair and a nice smile. Isolde liked him, though she saw that he was still more innocent compared to the others in the way he regarded the world. You could see it in the lines of his face, or rather lack there of; he did not have the hard lines around the mouth that many men wore that had seen too much cruelty in the harsh reality of the world.

"It's a pleasure." he croaked and cleared his throat quickly. He managed to blush furiously at the same time, too.

"The pleasure is all mine, Sir" Isolde replied seriously.

Arthur laughed a little and the next man came over to them. He had tangled, blonde hair and friendly blue eyes, in which the laughter about his friend Galahad's actions towards the Gaul lady still was present.

"Hello m´lady" he managed to get out, still chuckling, what earned him a glare from Galahad.

"May I introduce you to Gawain, my Lady?" Arthur asked and shot at the same time a glare towards Gawain, whose laughter quickly faded into apologizing hiccups.

"Sorry," he murmured as though he were guilty of a crime, and seemed to find great interest in his boots.

"No offence taken, Sir." Isolde grinned a bit at his contrite actions and when Gawain stepped away he blinked at her. She blinked back and had an immediate like for this lion of a man as well.

"My lady…" Arthur started again and Isolde interrupted him.

"If this is alright for you, my Lord, please call me Isolde."

Arthur stared at her a bit disbelievingly: "Yes…?"

"Yes, if this is alright for you as well, my Lord."

Arthur smiled broadly, and it was now possible to read his expressions. "Well, of course that's alright for me….Isolde, but only if you call me Arthur."

"Lass, but 'twould be better then if ye let the sir drop as well," A Sarmatian called out.

"We ain't no bloody Sires."

"Bors…language" Arthur hissed. Isolde smiled faintly.

"I got to tell you, valiant knights, that I am no Lady either."

That earned her a chuckle from the man, who had spoken, a bulky, shorter fellow with a shaven head.

"Greetings, lass" he shouted loudly and Isolde thought if she wouldn't know that he wouldn't do her any harm, she would be truly afraid of him, since his outward appearance was frightening. Arthur next to her looked again quite ready to faint at Bors' language in front of Isolde, for after all, she could tell by the knight and Roman's actions that he had had to scold his knights on more than one occasion about their language in front of a noblewoman.

Isolde shook his outstretched hand. "And a good day to you, Bors."

The man next to Bors bowed and smiled warmly at her, his gruff face becoming that of a kind and generous man. He was a giant of a man as well and Isolde thought after hearing Flavius's tale of them that it had to be Dagonet, the big knight with the even bigger heart for children.

Isolde felt safe around him and had a feeling that you couldn't wish for a better friend than Dagonet.

Isolde smiled at him. "You are Dagonet, are you not?"

He seemed to be a bit surprised to have been recognized by the Gaul.

"Yes. How do you know?"

Isolde decided to exaggerate a bit knowing that it would swell their egos. "The tales of Arthur and his knights are told everywhere." Well it wasn't much of an exaggeration for most children knew of the great Arthur and his brave Sarmatian knights.

Dagonet smiled even warmer, recognizing the flattery.

"You must have heard of me then as well," another smooth voice interrupted. Isolde turned around. _Ah,_ she thought before even having turned around, _the womaniser_. He had black curls, a trimmed beard and a handsomeness about him, that made Isolde understand why many women fell for him.  
However, **_she_** didn't fall for his charms.

"Indeed I have, Lancelot. You are the one that is always being chased by women with wooden spoons, aren't you?"

Lancelot grinned. "Such a sharp, wicked tongue you have, my beautiful lady."

Isolde shot him an annoyed look and stepped past him to the next knight, who promptly managed to trip over his own feet and knock her to the ground.

Isolde was quite unprepared for that and when a hand was extended to her, she took it, quite dazed. She looked up, the hand belonged to Dagonet. In that very moment Isolde wished the ground would swallow her. "Th-th-thanks." She had almost lost her ability to speak properly and was quite annoyed at herself because of that. The moment she raised her eyes next, she was suddenly met with Tristan's, who looked at her with a steady stare.

Quickly, she avoided his searching glance and stared to the ground.

A slight cough made her turn around. The small, a bit corpulent knight with the brown, tousled hair, who had knocked her to the ground, had turned a light pink.

"Sorry," he said. "Those things always happen to me."

It is alright" Isolde replied , countenancing herself .

"My name is Kay, my L…Isolde."

Isolde smiled at him and was introduced to Bedivere, Gareth and Gaheris (who looked quite similar to their brother Gawain) and Iwain, who looked at her with a smouldering glare.

Isolde shuddered and stepped away quickly. She didn't like that man. There was something about him…a cruel side, similar to the one Tristan had sometimes, but in contrary to Tristan the cruelty and blackness seemed to dominate him wholly.

Not that Tristan wasn't an intimidating person, but he was different.

Iwain was blackness, pure malice and simply creepy.

Isolde was glad when she didn't feel his eyes on her back anymore.

The next knight she was introduced to was called Erec. He greeted her with a simple, "my pleasure" and that was it. Isolde found that he was quite handsome with grey eyes and light brown hair. He wore a plaited bracelet around his arm and Isolde studied it shortly, curious to know of its origins. He obviously noticed, because he said abruptly, "It was given to me by my betrothed, who died in a Saxon raid."

"I am sorry." Isolde said honestly.

"Don't be," he replied a bit too harshly and upon realizing that he added more softly and apologetically, "perhaps I'll tell you one day of her."

Isolde nodded.

_Yes_, she thought, these _men are really the best men I ever had the honour to meet_._ They are just like the honourable, courteous men in the tales._

The next knight had a mop of soft golden hair and dark brown eyes. He didn't say anything, but started to perform a poem.

Du bist min, ih bin din: (2)  
Des solt du gewis sin.  
Du bist beslossen  
In minem herzen:  
Verloren ist daz sluzzelin  
Du muost och immer dar inne sin.

"It's very beautiful," murmured Isolde softly. She had heard something else in that poem, it had sounded like the sound of that day, when she was at the small river back in Gaul and Tristan had told her of the sound of silence.  
"What language is it in?"  
"It's the language of the people who live opposite the channel, in your neighbour country."  
Isolde smiled a bit. "And what is it about?"

"It's about an endless love," he answered cryptically and the look on his face was like the look of one, who sees more than other people. His eyes were deep and full of wisdom. Uncomfortably, she changed the subject.

"May I ask you your name, Sir knight?" she asked.

"That's Percival," Arthur remarked, and Isolde jumped, she hadn't heard him coming. "Our bard."

Isolde was introduced to Melan and Geraint, as well to Hermann, who had gotten a faraway look in his eyes, when Percival performed that poem.

Isolde wondered why, but she knew there was so much she didn't know about these men.  
Now she couldn't get away. Her legs felt as if she was frozen to the spot.

Slowly, she turned and stared for the second time that day in a pair of dark eyes. Behind her she could hear Branwaine, who had been introduced as well to the knights, giggle at something, that Lancelot had said, but Isolde was frozen to the spot.

Tristan stood there, calmly and looked at her.

Isolde would have expected everything, but not that he would just nod at her and then turn away. Inside she was hurt, but outside, she managed a forced, strained smile. "And what is your name, Sir?" as though she did not know the answer. She wore a cool look as though she was curious yet indifferent. But she wasn't. Inside she was hurting so badly.

Without even bothering to turn around he replied coldly and distantly, as if he knew, it was a trick to get him out of his emotionless mask. "Tristan." Then he turned away to get to his horse, since the other knights were already mounting their stallions. When he didn't even acknowledge her further, something in Isolde broke even more. She realized it was her heart. Her heart felt as though it were in her throat and she fought back a few tears.

However, when he was on his way to his grey stallion, he brushed rather roughly past her and murmured lowly without any warmth in his voice next to her ear, so no one except her could hear, "so we meet again."

Now that she was that close to him and could breathe in his smell of wood and rain, she also noticed the bandage that had been wrapped carelessly around his upper left arm.

***

The moment passed and too soon she found herself sitting again in the swaying and tottering old carriage next to Branwaine.

The countryside didn't change once, it was always the same: woods, a little bit of open fields and woods once again. Isolde sighed.

She stared at the passing forests and felt strangely left alone for the first time in her life, despite the fact that her best friend was sitting next to her.

Until now she had managed to bite herself through everything, but now, in a strange, foreign country, promised to a husband, whom she hadn't ever seen and in love with another man who was as cold as ice towards her, she was not so sure anymore if she could find a good way out of all of this. She didn't want her life to pass before her eyes in a blur, she didn't want it to be an endless boring chain of golden cages, fat old men, who wanted nothing but to have their way with her and a husband who would presumably treat her no better than scum.

She had heard he would have only one wife, who would be her, but secretly he had more whores and concubines, than she could count on both of her hands.

Isolde exhaled loudly, a sad sound, and buried herself in a corner of the carriage.

Outside she could hear the loud instructions of Arthur, the sound of horses galloping and the wind howling.

It was then that she thought about the Sarmatian knight, she had so soon fallen for. Tristan. Now when she thought of it she wasn't even sure of the truth of his words when he had become Tristan for her, not a sir.

But that day on the beach when she had found him, he had offered her that name, _Tristan_, and she hadn't even thought that it would be more appropriate to call him by the more polite Sir. No, Tristan had been so fitting, as if she had known him for forever.

Rain began to pound against the wooden sides of the carriage and Isolde stared on the ground with hazy eyes. Tristan had been her only backup on that strange, repelling island.

Once she had heard of Arthur being her escort to her betrothed's estate, Tristan had been her only thought in long, lonely nights.

But at the same time she had dreaded that moment when she would see him again, had feared he would react as if they had never met.

Now he had done it obviously- but worse. Hundred times worse than she would have expected, but the bitter tears that welled up in her eyes now, wouldn't be shed that time. No. She was strong. She wouldn't let him gain that satisfaction as well, to get her crying. He was cruel, as hard as stone to her, and she was hurt. So obviously hurt.

Of course she wouldn't have expected for him to hug her fiercely and tell her how glad he was to see her again…she chuckled dryly at this hilarious thought….but she had expected something, even if it had been a slight flicker in his eyes, to tell her he appreciated meeting her again. Not that stony silence. He had spoken four words to her so far.

Isolde snorted again, telling herself that she obviously stood alone- of course with dear, loyal Brana to her side, but nevertheless alone.

Tristan had made himself clear that they were even now- he had saved her life and she had saved his-and that no further interactions were needed.

But Isolde didn't want to stop. She knew Tristan had another side as well under that ice-cold unfriendliness of his, a caring side; she had gotten a few looks on back in Gaul. So she decided to fight- at least she wanted to know the reason for his coldness.

Life was rough and Isolde wasn't a spoilt princess who awaited for everything to come to her, but she wanted to have a hand in her own life and luck as well.

Since she was not a warrior, but had been raised in a warrior tribe, and knew the ways of those hardened men, she also knew that it wouldn't be easy for her to get Tristan to tell her, why he was like that towards her.

Sometimes Isolde would get infuriated at the ways of those men. They always knew that there was a meal on the table when they returned home, that everything was cleaned and so on…

Isolde's thoughts wandered back to Tristan's cold exterior.

Oh, of course she had noticed, that he was like that with everyone, but she wasn't about to give up now. That man was still due to get his shocking wonder.

She peered outside of the carriage again, wondering about the thick mist that descended from the woods. For a split of a second, she thought she'd see blue faces of demon-like humans that looked viciously at her from the woods.

But before she could be sure, they had disappeared as if they had never existed.

Isolde shivered involuntarily. Little dry leaves began to perform their silent autumn dance mixed with snowflakes and fell down on the little group, as they began to prepare for their night camp.

* * *

In the night it was quite cold and Isolde and Branwaine covered themselves tightly with the few blankets they had. Nevertheless it was an unpleasant cold and in the middle of the night Isolde awoke with a start.

She looked quickly at the sleeping Branwaine next to her, then stood quietly up and left the carriage.

No one was awake, except for a silent guard at a little fire.

Isolde stepped quietly through the rows of the sleeping knights and Romans and seated herself opposite of the man.

It turned out to be Percival, who smiled friendly at her.

They sat there for some time, staring both deep in their thoughts in the crackling flames.

"You know him, don't you?" Isolde knew immediately whom he had been referring to.

"Yes, I do. You're very observant, Sir."

"That is just Percival for you."

"Many thanks. But may I inquire why you noticed that I knew Tristan?"

"You looked at him as if daring to greet you somewhat specially."

Isolde took a sharp intake of breath, terrified of his answer. "Are you the only one who noticed?"

"It wasn't easy to see; you have your emotions controlled quite well. Actually it is quite impressive," came the quiet reply.

"Besides, the others were busy with their horses."

Isolde was silent. Percival continued at last. "But Isolde, there's one thing you ought to know. Tristan is a difficult person. I think that he knows it himself too. Tristan…if I should try and find words to describe Tristan, I'd say, he's like a shade or water. You can never hold him back, if he doesn't want to be held back. He's cold, stern and cruel, unpredictable, untouchable and equipped with a cynical dark humour. But that's only one side of the medallion. I've been around Tristan far too long, to not know, that he has another side as well. He cares about few and few care about him. Most of them see him as a man who had no emotions and is nothing but a killing savage. However, he does care about Arthur and us others, as we do care about him. If he didn't care, he could have just disappeared during one of his scouting missions, yet, he never did it, and he'll never do it. He always returns, like a bird to its nest. If Tristan was ever to love someone, he would love only one person forever, and somehow I can imagine it to be someone like you ."

Percival fell silent again and Isolde rose gently from her seat.

* * *

The next day commenced with a beautiful sunrise, even if it was short and the sun soon disappeared in the wavering mists again.  
It was even colder outside and the grass was full of dew.  
Isolde woke up in stiff clothes and yawned tiredly.

Standing up, she looked around and noticed that it was still early morning and Branwaine was still asleep in the carriage. It was about half an hour after the sunrise and no one was up except for the guard- another knight now-who stood unmoving next to the still smoking fire place- and Isolde.

The next moment she looked, a beautiful hawk flew down to land graciously on a knight's arm. It was Tristan's arm. Isolde was quick to get in the carriage again, but her feet made a small sound on the ground, causing Tristan to spin around attentively and look up sharply.

In a split of a second he had also an arrow on his bow notched, but when he recognized her, he let it sink equally quickly.

Isolde couldn't do anything but admire the hawk now perched on his shoulder. Her feathers were a dark brown with little white spots and her eyes where sharp and clear. Tristan pet her head, when she began to move anxiously around and she was calm once again. Isolde decided to walk over to him, because she was quite aware of how ridiculous it would have looked if she would have disappeared in the carriage now.

So she now stood bravely next to him and said softly, after clearing her throat in an attempt to swallow her fear of being rejected again: "Tis´ a beautiful hawk. What's her name?"

He looked quizzically at her for a moment, trying to determine the reason why she was asking him about his hawk. "She doesn't have one, but normally I like to think of her name as ´Freedom."

"Liberté," Isolde added. Tristan didn't look startled and Isolde thought that he was quick to figure out, that liberté did mean the same as freedom, only in her native language.

Isolde was very tempted to slap him now.

Instead she grabbed his upper arm harshly, causing him to breathe in sharply. She winced.

"Your arm is in dire need of being patched up."

"It is already."

"It is _not,_" Isolde hissed angrily back.

He stared at her and Isolde stared right back, just as irritated.

After some minutes of lasting silence, she stomped furiously back to the carriage, to fetch her supplies.

.

When she returned, more knights were awake.

Tristan was seated now in front of a big oak tree, with his hawk sitting on his arm once again. On her way over to him, Isolde had the strange feeling of being watched, but when she spun around to face the woods, no one was there, and only some mists hovered there.

Isolde gave a small, unsure laugh and sat down. Tristan held his arm out to her.

"They are there in the woods, watching us," he said suddenly and his voice was severe.

"Who?" Isolde asked sharply.

"Inish," Dagonet breathed. "The vicious ghosts from the woods"

"In other words Woads." Lancelot's voice was like frosty steel and his eyes had gone as cold as the chilling winds all around them.

Isolde shuddered. This side of them was in place again, the merciless side, the cold side.

Gone was the light atmosphere and a unnatural silence hung over the little group of knights and the few Roman soldiers settled in the damp grass.

Isolde felt Tristan's warm breath on her neck and shuddered again. Her fingers brushed lightly over his cold arm and she rubbed the dirt off the nasty looking wound with a soft linen.

"Where did you get it?" Tristan looked up sharply and his eyes surveyed her warily.

"An Ambush. Woads." His answer was always, short and to the point.

Isolde poured alcohol on the wound and he didn't even flinch. Only a short flicker of pain in his eyes told her that he felt it.

Her fingers shook when she touched his arm again and wrapped the bandage around it. She let them linger there a bit longer than necessary. He looked at her, his expression unreadable as always and took her hand from his arm, simply nodding at her again.

He hadn't released her, however, only his fingers stroked lightly the back of her hand, and Isolde understood suddenly, that it was his way of showing her that he still cared.

"My Lady…Isolde… many thanks."

Isolde was still a bit surprised from the sudden load of emotions that came crashing down on her from his touch, but Tristan tensed suddenly.

***

"They are coming closer," he said, his voice hoarse. "Many of them. Too many for us."

Arthur got on his feet. "We should leave."

Percival murmured, "the rumours of Rome's withdrawal from Britain is inciting them to come south of the wall."

"Mere Rumours," Erec interrupted harshly. "Aren't they, Arthur?"

Arthur avoided his knight's eyes. "We are leaving now. Get to your horses."

The men hesitated. "Who cares?" Gawain grumbled finally.

"In three years we'll leave this wretched island. Gawain is right; who cares?"

"I want to know!" shouted Galahad suddenly. "Did we risk our lives for nothing? Arthur! Answer me! Did so many Sarmatian knights die for nothing?"

Arthur called strictly, "We are leaving now, knights."

"I want to know, Arthur." Galahad was furious, his eyes ablaze.

Isolde watched the exchange sadly. She knew now of the simmering arguments right under the surface between them all and dreaded the moment, when they would come to their breaking point.

"Save your breath, boy," Tristan growled suddenly behind Isolde, dark anger evident in his words. "If Arthur says, we leave, we will leave now."

"Oh, the scout, who never cares about anything. I am envying you for your calm ways, Tristan." Galahad was shaking with fury, oblivious to the warning glances of the others.

"And what about Agravaine? About Sagramore?" he continued. "What about _Dinadan_?"

Tristan flinched suddenly when he heard that last name, and all of them noticed, including Galahad. "Did he give his life for nothing, Tristan? You could have saved him that day."

"Calm yourselves." Arthur tried to soothe them, but it didn't help anything anymore.

Tristan, the calm, emotionless Tristan was angrier than he had ever been in his life.

"Shut up!" he barked. "SHUT _UP_! Shut up lest you lose your head!" His voice lowered with the last sentence; it was hard to hear him, but all shuddered at his deadly tone of voice.

Only Isolde who was closest to him heard the slight tremble to his voice.

Galahad went on with his cruel taunting, wanting him to pay for not allowing him to find out the answer to his dire question. "Isn't it like that, Tristan? You could have saved him."

"It is enough, Galahad!" Gawain said suddenly. "Hold your tongue."

Galahad froze and turned around to Gawain. He looked like he was frozen, his mouth agape and his face red from yelling. Isolde didn't like him then. She could feel Tristan's pain as vividly as if it was her own, even if his face was emotionless again.

The Gaul princess wondered what had happened back then with that Dinadan, but she didn't dare to ask.

Instead she watched the men getting on their horses and turned back to Tristan.

"I am sorry. "

"Don't be," he whispered and Isolde who would have expected a dark glare, because she knew how much he despised weakness of any sort was startled. "Don't be" he repeated, voice stronger and there was no shaking in it.

Tristan looked shortly at her, mounted his horse and rode off, smirking a bit to himself, when he looked back and saw the confused expression on her face.

When he looked forward however and saw Galahad riding there, his heart clenched painfully, even if his face remained stoic. The words of the pup had stung, though he knew that Galahad hadn't really meant to hurt him; he'd just interfered with the desperate question in the young man's mind. He could understand his need to know if all the lives that had been lost were for nothing. That he had wasted a third of his life for nothing and was still wasting yet another three years.

His thoughts flew back to Dinadan. Tristan thought of two chocolate brown eyes and dishevelled brown hair, a mischievous smile and a cheerful soul. Yes…and these were barely enough words to describe the kind person Dinadan had been. Such a good brother in arms, his cousin, his true blood family—not a brother in arms.

He, Tristan had been supposed to look out for him, to protect him.

Tristan traced absentmindedly a long, deep scar on his forearm: He would never forget that day; it was branded in his memory forever, the day he had lost Dinadan… His hands found another scar, just next to the long one. It was a small one, one could almost oversee it, but yet, for Tristan it was another scar that told of a day, he would never forget.

This scar had hurt the most, yet not physically so. It had been three years ago…

* * *

_Tristan was sitting on the wall, gazing out over the silent land, while long shadows began to creep over the hills in the last light of the day. _

_He looked down to see Arthur talking with Dinadan and Sagramore and to the silent watcher it looked like they were arguing._

_Silently he went down and came to stand next to his young cousin._

"_No" Arthur was saying, "I don't want you to volunteer and go on this mission. You're both far too young and inexperienced to do so."_

"_But how can we prove that we are old enough to prove that we are hardened warriors as well, if not like this?" Dinadan asked acidly._

_Arthur looked hesitant. "I will think about it."_

_When Arthur and Sagramore were gone and Dinadan still stood there, motionless, Tristan said strictly, "You won't go on this mission. Arthur is right."_

_Dinadan stared at him angrily. "You can't tell me what to do."_

_"__**Yes, I can." **Tristan had slipped in the Sarmatian tongue, because he didn't want all people to understand their argument._

_"__**Why?" **Dinadan was still furious._

_"**Yllona, your aunt told me to look out for you. And even if she hadn't, I would do so, because you are the closest thing to a brother I ever had."**_

_To admit such feelings, had taken a lot from Tristan and he shuddered inwardly. Dinadan turned around and went away, without saying anything anymore._

_But Tristan knew he would try to convince Arthur. Dinadan had always been good at convincing others._

_That evening he went to Arthur himself and had a long talk with him. Arthur agreed finally: he wouldn't allow Dinadan to go on that dangerous missions yet._

_Satisfied, Tristan made his way to the wall again the next morning. Arthur had given his accord. Tristan didn't want Dinadan to be hurt. Yes, he loved him very much, like a brother would do, and he would get him back home, even if this would be the last thing he would do. _

_Sudden, loud, angry footsteps alerted him immediately. _

"_Cousin," someone growled. _

_Tristan replied warily, "Yes?"_

"_You convinced Arthur to forbid us to go on this mission." Dinadan's voice was like acid and Tristan felt himself flinching inwardly._

"_Yes. Why can't you understand, Dinadan? I only want you to come out unharmed out of all this."_

"_No! I cannot understand, Tristan! I am not a little kid you need to look out for anymore!" The anger in Tristan grew as well._

_Darkly he replied, "Perhaps I should have let it be then, if you want so desperately be killed."_

_He knew, it had been wrong, but the words had been said, and nothing could be taken back. Out of the blue, Dinadan lunged at him. Tristan was surprised and reacted far too slow._

_Dinadan hit him with surprising strength and suddenly his nails were on Tristan's forearm, leaving bloody traces. Tristan, the calm Tristan was shocked and his expression showed for once the betrayal and the shock he felt. _

_Dinadan's face showed nothing but guilt and surprise at his own actions._

"_I am sorry, Tristan." Then he slowly turned around and left the wall, leaving Tristan to his troubled thoughts. Groaning, the dark scout buried his face in his hands, wondering what on earth he had done wrong._

_

* * *

  
_

Now, it was the same with Isolde. After all, she was nothing but a princess they were to escort to her betrothed. Nothing more.

When he heard from Arthur the name of that princess they were to escort, he had been surprised at first…or that feeling had been more like a plunge into ice-cold currents of a wintery river.

However, he had decided that he wouldn't let him affect it. The best thing was to avoid her at all costs, and be as unfriendly to her as he could muster. That was what he tried to do for all costs: avoid her.

Isolde was to be married and he wouldn't even try to show her that he fancied her. Of course it was more than simply fancying, but that was another aspect of that dreadful theme. It shouldn't have affected him that she was to be married. He didn't care either about Roman laws or the laws their ridiculous church had made up- but…Ah, well.

He sighed again and thought about her betrothed. Tristan had never made himself any illusions when he had heard whom she was to be wed to. Marcellus Aurelius had never been known for his kindness, neither had he been ever known for his ways to treat women with the honour they deserved. He had more whores and concubines at his court than, so Tristan thought at least, at the Emperor's court in Rome existed.

The only thing that had the pope of the Christians kept from doing anything against Aurelius, when the rumours had reached His Holiness, had been the money sent to bribe him, which had been successful. Everyone knew about it, almost everyone in Britain who knew Aurelius, but the Romans kept their mouths tightly shut about the whole ordeal.

Tristan's face contorted in a snarl. The whole Roman nation seemed to do nothing but bribe and fool each other. Tristan was disgusted by them.

However, Arthur, Arthur was a whole different person.

Arthur was probably the only one of the entire nation, whom Tristan trusted with his whole heart, because he had proven himself more than necessary to be more than worthy of that trust.

His thoughts wandered back to Isolde. She wouldn't lead an easy life there with this Roman lord, but he tried to tell himself that he didn't care. No, he didn't. He would also stop thinking about her, because, he didn't care.

Or…did he? Bloody hell….

Tristan was suddenly and roughly shaken from his troubled thoughts, when he heard the sudden sound of dozens of running feet.

These sounds were almost inaudible, since the Woads moved lightly over the ground like deer, but Tristan heard them nevertheless. He always heard them. Woads.

He cantered quickly and hastily to Arthur's side.

"They will attack soon, Arthur. I fear we have stayed too long."

Arthur nodded, his eyes scanning the forest as well.

"When will they attack? We should try to avoid an open fight, since we are outnumbered by them."

Dark eyes stared unblinkingly back to Arthur. "I don't know," was the honest reply, "but I think they won't wait until we're on the open plains again."

The quiet sound of a horn being blown alerted Tristan again.

Arthur didn't hear anything, so he looked quite confused, when his scout appeared to listen intently to seemingly nothing at all. However, he knew, Tristan's ears and eyes were far better than those of normal people. If they weren't they'd all be long dead and buried in the sad little graveyard,' which is what Lancelot liked to call it.

Tristan heard the horn again, and with a sudden understanding of that new signal, he breathed painfully: "They will attack. Now."

Arthur didn't waste any time. He turned around to the men and shouted loudly.

"Woads. Prepare for attack."

Immediately the Sarmatians as well as the few Roman soldiers accompanied the knights to the fort as well had their weapons drawn.

They formed a tight circle around the carriage and waited full of tension for the inevitable.

* * *

_Translations:_

_Forever Winter (1)_

_You are mine , I am yours,(2)  
You can be sure of that.  
You are closed  
In my heart  
The key has been lost:  
You have to stay in forever_

_Warning: That's a **very** free translation of that old medieval German poem in English (-;_


	13. Crevan

_Hello everyone.  
I am really sorry for not updating for so long- I am really ashamed as well, but I hope that I'll manage to do so now on a more regular basis. Thanks for your reviews again!  
-Sachita _

* * *

**13. Crevan**

*****  
**

Isolde noticed the men outside becoming anxious.  
She looked out of the carriage- a chilling wind blew her hair out of her face and she shivered, meeting Arthur's eyes, who looked grimly at her.  
"Stay in the carriage, Isolde"he shouted.  
"This is by any means not safe for you to be outside now."  
Isolde nodded, obeying and drew the curtain back again.  
Branwaine sat next to her, shivering with fear and anticipation, but Isolde forced herself to stay calm.  
The wretched silence was suddenly broken by blood-curling screams- battle screams.

Tristan prepared himself for battle- with the same cool demeanor, which never wavered.

It were many Woads this time- he knew it would become a hard battle for them to win.  
Their leader was a man with blue painted skin like his comrades, long tangled hair with some animal bones fastened in it. Tristan scowled at their approaching enemies.  
"Lovely hair do" Lancelot commented with a wry grin in the direction of the Woad leader, his twin swords in his hands.  
Tristan next to him only shot him a blank sideways glance, what caused Lancelot to grin even more.  
They hadn't dismounted- the advantage to be on horseback was a big one against the Woads.

Tristan notched some arrows on his Sarmatian bow, which was worn but well-cared would have never admitted it to anyone, but he treasured that bow.  
The little carvings of a stag and a bear on the bow had been made by his mother and his little sister, as far as her little fingers had allowed her to do such.  
He had chosen the wood for the bow with his father- they had gotten up very early in the morning and had been gone for the whole day…  
The Romans, which had taken his family from him, had taken his bow with them, though, when they discovered they were not able to use it, they had just thrown it away.  
Tristan had run back later to retrieve it, after they had dropped him in a field not far way from the place, where they had thrown his bow. It was now the only thing, which reminded him of home and his long dead family.  
The Woads were coming nearer and Tristan could see their faces more clearly now.  
He heard Bors yell: "Ruuuuuuuuuuus!" and let his arrows fly.

Isolde looked outside. The last few minutes had been an endless stream of loud sounds of clanging metal and front of her, a Woad fell down on the ground. Apparently he had been standing on the carriage. Blood was splattered on his clothes and his face was smeared with it.  
Isolde could tell with one look at him, that he would die soon.  
It pained her to see anyone dying, even if it was their "enemy".  
Isolde didn't really perceive those warriors as her enemies- she could understand them only too well- their need for their own country- after all, hadn't her cousin even been with them once?  
Gauls and Woads were so similar- yet so different.  
She focused her attention against on the dying Woad.  
Her eyes were drawn to his. His eyes were a light blue and he seemed to beg her to end his pain.  
Suddenly she knew what she had to do. The Gaul slipped out of the carriage, ignoring Branwaine´s fearful cries.  
She knelt next to the Woad, caressing his face.  
How it pained her to see anyone in such pain, knowing that she couldn't save him.  
His eyes never left hers and she saw more and more of a frightened child in them, than of a grown- up boy, who was barely a man.  
After all, weren't those men all like boys, forced to live a life full of bloodshed and combat?

"Beautiful …Lady" the Woad on the ground rasped.  
" I am here, don´t worry. Everything will be alright." Isolde choked, fighting the tears in her eyes.  
The Woad smiled, a wonderful peaceful smile after that words and his eyes slowly closed , his head lolled aside.

**

Tristan looked up in time to see Isolde kneeling next to what appeared to be the corpse of a Woad. What on earth did she think she was doing? Didn't she know it was dangerous?

Determined and slightly annoyed at the thought that he was caring about her well-being, when she had obviously done this on purpose, he roughly shoved some Woads aside.  
Finally, he reached her."Get in there" he growled angrily, his dark eyes ablaze.  
"How can you be so uncaring? He's only a child", she shouted, motioning to the Woad boy to her feet.  
" You are soon as dead as him, if you don't get in now", was his steady reply.  
Isolde was about to argue, but one look in his hard eyes told her it was useless.  
She was just turning around to get back in the carriage, when suddenly one of Tristan's throwing knives whizzed past her ear.  
Terrified and startled, she spun around, just in time to see a Woad with a drawn knife in his hand behind her crumbling to the ground with a dull thud, that made her shudder involuntarily.  
"Get. In. Now."  
Roughly, he shoved her in and closed the curtain.

Angrily he threw a swipe at a passing Woad, promptly severing his head.  
This damned woman. He wondered, how she always managed to affect him that much.  
Of course he did care.  
What did she expect?  
Well, he knew the general opinion, and sometimes he felt as if they were right about him.  
Tristan, the killer.  
Tristan, the brutal knight with no guilt, Tristan the shadow, with no feelings.  
Oh yes, he had heard what they were whispering about him, had listened to the women gossiping and had seen the children cast frightful glances at him only to look away quickly, when he turned around, sensing their knew all of it. But he didn't care anymore.

And since he was Tristan, Tristan, the stoic, cold scout with no feelings whatsoever, he rode up to Arthur to make his report.  
Being Tristan did imply being frozen and hard like a piece of sharp metal, which hurts, not with words but with actions.  
Being Tristan did imply being a murderer in servitude, a lethal, quiet knight with footsteps like the soft, treacherous night and a sword with deathly aim.  
And being Tristan was being lonely, was being not accepted by anyone.  
Being Tristan was like living a lie, being Tristan was like a beaver, who spends his time constructing a dam around himself, a brick wall with no windows.  
Yes, that all was being Tristan and the man who was, rode up to Arthur and told him in clear, firm words, that the Woads would come again, if they didn't get moving now.

* * *

Arthur stared after his scout, worry lines creasing on his forehead.  
Had it just been his impression or had Tristan looked a bit shaken?  
He couldn't get the feeling out of his mind, that there was more to Tristan than what meets the eye.  
He had known it before; had watched the quiet, lanky and already always attentive little boy who had arrived at the fort years ago, to a even quieter knight, who brought dead to those who dared to raise a weapon against him.  
The scout with the rugged appearance and the frightening calm, dark eyes seemed oblivious to the whispers that were following him around everywhere.

_"Look there is the murderer!"_

_"There goes that brutal monster with the blood still fresh on his hands from his last murders, with the hawk on his shoulder and no expression on his face!"_

Arthur had heard them all, those mean whisperings among the people- how disgusted he was with their demeanor.  
Here was Tristan- here were the Sarmatian knights who had saved the life of these people more than once and yet they still complained, still treated them like dirt and looked down on them, while they returned carrying their own brothers- dead- in front of them on their horses.  
Arthur in contrast was well-liked-because he was a Roman.  
He himself had never differed between nationalities and beliefs. Pelagius had once told him,that all men were equal and Arthur acted upon this.  
Of course, he knew, one couldn't blame all the people living at Hadrian´s wall to be that way. But many of them were, it didn't matter whether they talked about their opinion, or if they didn't and chose to lurk in the shadows- Arthur hated them.  
The worst gossipers were surprisingly mostly those with better financial situations who were arrogant, biased and wore their nose so high in the air, that the common people wondered whether they wanted to catch some snowflakes with it.  
And then someone should come and tell him that the patricians, the rich citizens, had the better manners…

***

But with his thoughts flying abruptly back to Tristan, when he saw the scout gallop on his dappled white steed into the woods at a steady pace, he sighed. He knew that Tristan _cared_- cared about them and what happened to them, despite what Galahad said every time after he had gotten in a fight with Tristan.  
It was extremely strange- the youngest and most fiery knight always managed to get Tristan to go out of his shell- even if it was only to shout back at the other Sarmatian.  
Galahad was afraid- Arthur knew- of Tristan, his cool demeanor and the indifference in his eyes when they had finished a battle…  
…and perhaps it was his youthfulness, his caring demeanor, which reminded Tristan of his lost innocence so long ago and made him strike out against the pup, blind and lost in his own hurt and anger, with no one to comfort him- ever.  
Arthur sighed again.

Tristan…his most reliable scout had seen too much, experienced too much by the hands of Arthur's nation, at least that was what Arthur thought, seeing the menacing glint in his scout's eyes, every time the word _Rome_ fell. Rome.  
Rome…Arthur loved it, but sometimes he hated it too, for what it had done to his men, what damage it had caused to his knights both mentally and physically; yet, sometimes, he was almost _glad _that they were here now…and he dreaded the moment when they would get their discharge papers.  
Mentally, he scolded knew, he shouldn't think like that. In three years all of them would receive their freedom…and he would go to Rome…_and wallow in self-pity.  
Shut up! _Arthur told the annoying little voice in his brain, not wanting to be pestered by it.  
_You know it´s true and you know how much you´ll miss them. _Another voice chimed in the internal battle.  
Arthur scrubbed wearily a hand over his face, wondering how often he'd been asking himself these questions in the last ten years.

Some hours of riding later, when Arthur was just having a good-natured banter with Lancelot, a quiet, but persistent voice interrupted their bantering."Arthur. The Woads regroup themselves not far from here. Other tribes have joined them.  
There are too much of them for us to fight. That isn't one of their random attacks.  
They want to attack us on our way. We should return to the Fort."  
"We can´t take another way?" Arthur asked tiredly.  
"No. Too much of them. They have planned this for a long time. The attack before was just a warning."  
Lancelot interrupted sharply.: "Are you saying that we shall return to the fort and wait for assisting troops?"  
Evidently, this thought hurt the dark man's pride.  
Tristan just gave him a long disinterested look, bordering on boredom.  
"What Tristan is implying" Arthur added, who had gotten the hint  
"is, that he has already checked the other remaining paths and if we would ride further in that direction we would not only endanger ourselves with that suicide mission, but the Princess Isolde and her maid too."

Tristan just nodded.  
"Those Woads weren't careful. They wanted me to see them, and they wanted me to see all of them.  
Merlin just wants to keep us away from there, not kill us."  
Arthur scratched his chin thoughtfully. This move of Merlin didn't make any sense.  
Lancelot started to get uptight. "Perhaps Merlin just didn't think we would send a scout and-"  
He was cut off by a very long, very bored look from Tristan and threw up his hands in surrender.  
"Alright, alright. So, what do we do now?"  
"Get Isolde and the girl to the fort."  
Tristan´s answer was clipped and emotionless, but Lancelot looked surprised at him.  
First of all, it was extremely seldom that Tristan offered his opinion, unless you asked him for it and secondly that he had called the Lady by her name, even if she had offered them to use it.  
Very unusual indeed.

_Lancelot is suspicious, _Tristan thought, watching the breaths of the other knights form white clouds in the cold air.  
_Shouldn't have been so careless._  
He had regretted his words as soon as he had completed the sentence, but at least Arthur didn't seem the slightest bit fazed by his choice of words.  
That didn't surprise Tristan. His normally very attentive commander had other, many other things to think about now.

Finally Arthur turned around to face the other knights and they all looked surprised at him.  
"Alright knights, we're going to ride back to the fort, since Tristan told me there are large groups of Woads waiting for us not far from here. It's a death trap and if we would ride in that direction, we wouldn't make it out alive. It are not only our lives we would throw away so foolishly, but the Lady Isolde's too."  
"And no" he added, when he saw Bors's glare, "we're not running away. It´s simply a matter of prudence."  
The Romans, who accompanied them, seemed to be alright with that, but out of all people it was the servant of that dubious Marcellus Aurelius, Isolde's husband-to be, with the unsettling eyes, named Filius, who protested.

"I won't accept that. My Lord, the fair Marcellus…"  
He was silenced with a quick glare from the giant Dagonet and a threatening:  
"Do ya have somethin' to say, laddie?" from Bors.  
Normally Arthur didn't appreciate Bors's rudeness, but this time he didn't even look once at the black-haired servant, who gave him an accusing glare now.

"Right. As I have said before, we're going to ride to the fort, all of us, except for Tristan, who'll look if he can find out, what Merlin is planning to do in the forest."Tristan gave a short nod, seemingly unaffected by everything Arthur said.  
Percival looked up to see Isolde look full of regret after Tristan.  
He smiled a little. He hoped so much for the young lass and for his friend that they would find their happiness.  
He knew their path would be full of stones, but well, life was after all, never easy.  
He vowed to keep a close eye on the princess. She was after all very pretty and he had already seen some of the low-ranked Roman soldiers eye her suggestively- those men were mostly mercenaries and willing to do even the dirtiest of works, if they got paid for it.  
Those were the men Percival detested.

Most Romans did have a sense of honour- he wasn't like Galahad, who held a grudge against the whole wasn't so fond of them, that much was true, yes, but he respected most of them and some of the Romans stationed at the fort had even become something like good friends to him, for example Flavius Gnaeus, who was riding with them now.  
He looked shortly in the Roman's direction and received a mischievous wave in return.  
The dark-haired Roman gestured to one of his comrades on a horse in front of him, who had fallen asleep while riding and was now teetering in tact with his horse's steady for him, the commanding Roman officer hadn´t noticed yet.  
Percival rolled his eyes.  
Flavius was just too much of a prankster for his own good.  
He watched the lean Roman ride forward to his snoring comrade with a very long blade of grass in his calloused hand.  
Flavius grinned again,a grin which seemed to split his face and tickled his comrade's nose with the offending plant, who sneezed, but continued to snore on merrily.  
Flavius tickled him again and-

**H-H-ACHU! –**

all of them were startled and the Roman, who had been woken up so cruelly even tumbled from his saddle. Flavius bite his lip, looking unsure of whether he should laugh at his own misfortune or get a good hiding-hole somewhere in Rome, because he obviously hadn't intended for that to happen.  
He took the first option, though his laughter quickly faded, when he saw the commander ride up.  
"What's the matter here? Soldier!"  
Flavius winced and saluted quickly, all humour gone now.  
Percival saw the mercenaries snicker and had a hard time containing his fury, seeing the others do so too- they all liked Flavius, who was probably getting a beating, but that was Rome's law- a foolish joke being a crime- and they could do nothing but try to live through it.  
Percival sighed, thinking now about the consequences if anyone would find out about the connection between Tristan and Isolde.  
Tristan would be beheaded and he, Percival couldn't let that happen.

* * *

Tristan meanwhile was laying on a thick tree branch, carefully avoiding any sounds.  
There was a difference when spying on Saxons, Woads or another nation.  
The Woads were the most difficult to spy on, they were very wary and attentive and were alert even at the slightest sound.  
But Tristan had plenty of experience with them- knew their usual fighting methods, knew where they were probably going to place the guards and avoided those spots.  
He had been forced to kill two of the guards, so he wouldn't be discovered and he knew he did have a good twenty minutes before their relief would arrive and alarm would be sounded.  
Slowly, he pushed himself forwards on the tree branch.  
Thankfully none of the assembled Woads on the ground noticed anything suspicious.

"_Dou moust deene Mêer vórbereetn, Merlin."_

Tristan stared incredulously at the man on the ground, who had spoken last- he knew him- but the last time he had seen this man it had been a long time ago- yet the Sarmatian remembered it, and he had to strengthen his grip on the branch, when he felt the sensation of a nasty surprise roll over him.  
His mind reeled and he felt as if _Meeire_, the devil in the Sarmatians' belief had personally come and fetched him to feed him to his waiting shadow slaves.  
The bony, short man down there was quite old. He had already white long hair and his long beard matched the hair's colour. All in all he resembled one of the wizards in one of Vanora's bedtime stories.  
Yet something immediately destroyed those childish tales about the good wizard-the man was wearing leather clothes and his cape was a long dark wolf fur.  
The fur itself was quite a sight to see, because patches as red as fire and as black as coal in the shape of paw prints had been sewn on it- when the man turned around and the cape swung with his movement, it looked as if the paw prints were moving.  
The other thing which destroyed the good wizard image, were his eyes.  
They were a dark gray, so dark, that they seemed almost black and they were always compressed as if the man couldn't stand the bright daylight.

Hate and fury rose in Tristan until he felt as if he could jump down there and cut the old man's heart man had many names- the Sarmatians called him "Old Man-Stranger" , but Tristan had also heard him being called "Crevan" which was Celtic and had the same meaning as "fox".  
Hearing him talk now, Tristan realized that the man was obviously indeed a Woad by birth.  
Nobody who wasn't a Woad native could speak their language as well as they did even after practicing a lot and since Tristan had been around Woads long enough, he knew how to differ between natives and non-natives.  
Crevan was notorious in the whole Roman Empire for his cruelty and his skills: he was both an outstanding war-tactician and had a lot of knowledge about poisonous plants. This made him a dangerous enemy.  
There were also rumours, that he had been an assasin in younger years, paid by the Emperor himself…that was where he had earned his nickname "Varius", a Roman name, which meant "versatile". Tristan shuddered inwardly when he thought of the possible interpretations of this name.  
Crevan was a liar, a fox and an insidious traitor- you never knew when he would decide that his loyalties would lie elsewhere and stab you in the back.

Tristan had seen that man in Sarmatia before, when his tribe had succeeded in defeating a group of bandits, whose leader Crevan was and whose sole purpose was murdering and stealing to weaken the Sarmatians in the inofficial order of the Roman Empire. Crevan had left the bandits' camp before, thus he wasn't killed in the battle.  
This time, his tactical skills had failed the old man, but Tristan was sure, that he had sworn all the Sarmatians, who had defeated him that day bitter revenge.  
He wasn't sure, but he suspected that his family's murdereres had been incited by Crevan or one of his stooges as well.  
After that battle however, the Sarmatians had seen him standing on a hill, his face red with madness and anger.  
Yes, that had been Tristan's first encounter with Crevan.

"Paya", he had asked his father "Who was this man?"  
"A bad, bad man, Tristan. He intends to harm everyone- he can't be reasoned with."  
Tristan had been a small boy and he hadn't understood everything but now he did.  
And he knew they all had reason to fear that little old man down there.

***

It made the Woads all the more despicable- that they fraternised with him - but…  
Looking out for Merlin, he saw him sit at the trees opposite of him…he looked unhappy and ….annoyed?  
When he regarded the other Woad leaders, namely Cillian, who had the most power next to Merlin, he saw them all wearing the same expression.  
He was amazed because the Woads didn't even behave like their usual attentive selves.  
They all, mainly the younger ones looked a bit …dazed and their whole attention was focused on Crevan.

Tristan concentrated hard on what he was saying. Celtish was a difficult language, full of complicated long expressions."…We will win….powerless..against…"  
Tristan focused his attention again on Merlin.  
The old Woads sat together whispering quietly, but sometimes one would raise his head and glare furiously at Crevan and then concerned at the young Woads with the dazed expressions.  
Tristan could tell they were all displeased, no, they even hated the current situation they found themselves in, but were unable to stop it.  
Now Merlin rose from his seated position.

Tristan strained his ears again to hear some of his words.  
"…no honour in that…not our ways to fight like that…pride…stained…Crevan…wrong."  
But his voice got lost in the shouts of the young Woads: "War! War! War!"

The silent watcher was amazed- they had never dared to interrupt Merlin before,  
But now it looked as if Crevan was as much a problem to his authority as he would be to the knights since he fought not fair.

What Tristan defined as "fair" was hand-to-hand combat, where everyone had the same chances….With Crevan however you could think of everything.  
Tristan frowned, sliding hastily from the tree and making his way towards his loyal mare, taking even more care to be undetected- he had to get to Arthur to warn him.  
If Crevan managed to lead the Woads in a war, this would mean a grave danger.  
The knight didn't know, whether the Woads were aware of his cruel ways.  
If he gained enough power over them and if he was able to outsmart Merlin, he would make the Woad territority to his own Empire and nobody would be able to stop him.  
Tristan however preferred Merlin, an enemy whose ways he knew, to someone far more brutal and unpredictable like Crevan.

* * *


	14. Misfortunes never come singly

**14. Misfortunes Never Come Singly**

*****  
**

They were on their way back to the fort.  
The weather outside was the same: rainy, windy and foggy.  
Thus, Isolde couldn't help but wondering if the weather in this country was maybe always like that? She grinned, faintly amused and also fairly horrified at the idea.  
They had sold their carriage in the last village they had come across, because Arthur was of the opinion, that they had to hurry.  
The last reports that Tristan had given him, before he had ridden off to look for Merlin's whereabouts had been worrying, and so, they had reached the conclusion that they had to get the two women safely to the fort.

The servant Filius protested when he heard, that he was supposed to ride a horse.  
"I can't be expected to ride a horse. The two women can't either! That's not proper."  
Lancelot wanted to say something, but Isolde was quicker.  
"I assure you, sir, we are quite able to ride horses alone. I don't know if you are.  
Real men like those brave knights can ride horses. So, are you a real man, or just a coward, sir?"  
She had stretched the last word and smiled with fake friendliness at the Roman.

"You…" the Roman seethed. " I don't care that you will marry my Lord.  
You're just a dirty savage, a wild Gaul from the woods. We should have killed your whole tribe instead of agreeing to that pact! Instead of taking you with us, the girl, that is even hated by her own father-"  
_SLAP! _Isolde's hand flew out and slapped the man. Hard.  
Her hand left a red imprint and Filius stared at her, stunned.  
Isolde was white with rage. "Take that" she spat and with her head held high, she marched to her horse, sitting up and revealing dark leather pants under her skirt, that she took off. She wore a loose-fitting tunic over them.

Filius gaped and Isolde smiled smugly:  
"I just wanted to prove your opinion of me being a savage, wild inhabitant of the forest."  
Bors roared with laughter and even Arthur chuckled at Filius's inability to retort anything.  
He just opened and closed his mouth several times, looking like a fish fresh out of the water.

Isolde rode up to Arthur and was silent at first.

Then she said:  
"I apologize for my behaviour, my Lord. I hope you don't find it inappropriate."  
"Just tell me" Arthur said "did you wear pants just for the sake of annoying Filius?"  
"No" Isolde smiled amused. "Wearing pants is common for the women in Gaul, when riding."  
Arthur stared at her. "Why?"  
"It comes in handy."  
Arthur laughed, he couldn't help himself.  
"That's a great answer, if I have ever heard one."  
Isolde laughed too and Arthur shook his head.

Behind them, in the back was Lancelot with Filius.  
He fixed the servant with a glare.  
"Don't try to do anything to her, do you understand me? If you try something, you'll have business with me and"  
he drew one of his swords "with it. Is that clear?"  
"Sure" the frightened man managed.

Bors's patience had come to an end as well.  
"You" he growled to the servant "will not dare to insult her in any way again, is that clear?"  
The man, already frightened from Lancelot's threats, just managed a jerky nod.  
"Good" said Bors. "I'll keep an eye on ya."

* * *

Isolde rode next to Arthur."What will you do, Arthur, when your service in that country is over? Will you go to Rome and see the magnificent buildings? Will you visit Circus Maximus?"

Arthur looked at her. "I don't know, what will be, Isolde. I look into the future and see nothing but an empty path."  
Isolde's smile had faded.  
"I know the feeling, My Lord" she said, and watched how a flight of birds took wing ahead of them.  
"I look in the future and see naught but darkness. Sometimes I don't even see myself."  
Arthur didn't know what to answer.  
"I am sure, your husband isn't as bad as the rumours make him to be."

Isolde smiled weakly at his attempt to comfort her.  
"Let us not play this game, Artorius. You know these rumours and you know them to be true. He is naught but a bad man. One of them. A cruel patriarch to his subordinates. You may as well count me to them in some time."  
"Alas, I am in a way one of them as well. Why are you so open to me, Milady?"  
"Oh no" Isolde said softly. "You're a good man, Arthur. A good leader. I knew it, when I first laid eyes on you. The men trust you. You're not one of them. You're one of us."

"Despite me leading so many of my knights to their deaths already?" he pointed out bitterly.  
In her green eyes burnt a silent flame.  
"Every good leader has to ask himself that question once, and you do it often enough, Arthur Castus. Too often, perchance. You can't prevent those things from happening any more than you can keep the sun from rising. Life has cruel ways and we are mere puppets in it, led by an unseen force."  
"You do not believe in the ability to be the maker of your own life then? You don't feel, as if you have some control over it?"  
"I used to." Isolde smiled sadly.  
"What happened for you to lose hope like that?"  
"Too many things, Arthur. And I lost the key to my answers."

They ceased talking, because the fort had appeared after a sudden, sharp turn.

Isolde sucked in a breath. She knew, that she was not in danger here, but she and her people had fought the Romans for too long, to feel welcome here.  
She tried to shake off the feeling of being imprisoned, when the gates closed behind them and looked around awestruck instead.  
She had seldom seen so many people in one place. Everything was bustling with hectic activity, merchants tried to sell their goods with loud voices, little old women without teeth praised the mysterious healing powers of herbs with odd-sounding names, some children laughed and ran after the knights.

"Papay! You're back!"

It was a herd of children, and to her mild amusement, it was Bors, who replied:  
"There you are my little bastards! Everything alright?"

"Yaay!" cried a little girl with red hair, who was being followed by a woman with equally fiery red hair. "Papay is there!"  
The woman pulled Bors in a hearty kiss and slapped him afterwards.  
"Hey, woman! What was that for?!"  
"For coming too late- as always!"

The other knights snickered.  
"Do you keep count of the slaps ,Bors?"  
"Shut up, Lancelot."

The woman beamed, when she saw Isolde and Branwaine and then extended her hand with such warmth in her eyes, that Isolde shook it gladly.  
"My name is Vanora" the woman said kindly.  
" I am Isolde" she said and smiled again at the woman, admiring her for her strength already.  
"My name is Branwaine" her friend said and bowed shyly.  
"Oh no" Vanora laughed. "None of that bowing stuff here!"  
"Come with me! I'll get you some hot soup!"

"Uh" Arthur interjected " I would like to have a word with Lady Isolde beforehand…"  
"No" Vanora waved a wooden spoon and Isolde was surprised to see the men step back warily.  
"The lasses come with me now. They need something to eat. You men don't understand the needs of a woman."  
Isolde managed to give the knights an apologetic look, as they were dragged away by Vanora, but Percival, who caught her gaze, simply winked at her and grinned.

* * *

Tristan meanwhile spurred his horse in a quick canter, aware, that Arthur needed to be informed of the new development quickly.  
He reached the fort and arrived together with a group of Roman soldiers.  
"Let me through! I got an important message for Arthur!"  
With that he cantered through the surprised rows of Romans, who quickly got out of his way, the hawk wildly flapping on his arm.

He arrived before the stables and after giving his horse's reins to Jols with a quick nod of thanks, he crossed the few metres to Arthur, who stood there, leaning at the door frame, with an unreadable expression in his eyes, apparently having heard of Tristan's hurried arrival.  
"What has happened, Tristan?"

"Woads. They gather in the forest. Hundreds of them. They don't obey Merlin anymore."

Lancelot had stepped closer and asked now: "They don't obey Merlin anymore? Why?"

"He is back."

"Who?" Arthur asked, sounding apprehensive.

"Crevan" Tristan said simply.

The brief silence was only interrupted by the sound of Lancelot's fist hitting the door.

* * *

_I am so sorry for not updating earlier. Really. I am.  
I was hit with a massive case of Writer's block with that story and my life was very busy, but I know, how unfair it has been towards you, the wonderful reviewers, but I am at least a little over it now. Not completely, so it can still take some time for me to update, but I will finish this story, and I already have some ideas of how to continue.  
If someone has an idea of how to continue too,please, feel free to tell me!  
The answers to reviews are, as always, in my profile. _

_Thanks if you are still there and reading this. I appreciate your support._

_-Sachita- (-;_


	15. Warnings and Decisions

_I said, that I would finish this story, so here is chapter 15 already. Surprised? I am too :P. I hope you like it.  
Review replies are in my profile, thanks for the feedback! - Sachita (-; _

* * *

**15. Warnings and Decisions**

*****  
**

Isolde was sitting on a rickety stool before the knight's quarters, enjoying the last rays of sunlight on her face, since the sun was just beginning to disappear on the horizon.  
When nothing but a red shine was still visible and it got darker, Tristan attempted to storm past her.  
She caught his hand, and annoyed, he glared at her past his fringe of hair.

"What is it now, woman?"

"We need to talk, Tristan" Isolde said softly.

He sighed, sounding irritated, but she really hadn't expect him to be overcome with joy at her demand.  
However, he allowed her to lead him on the wall, far away from curious listeners and in the light of a torch, that was in an iron holder at the wall, she stopped and looked at him.

"Why do you do this, Tristan?"

Impatient, he whirled to face her.  
"Do what?"

"Don't talk to me anymore. Treat me like you don't even know me. I've saved your life, you know. Back in Gaul you were different."

Somewhat angry, but still maintaining his calm he replied:  
"What the hell do you expect from me, woman? I am not a cheerful talker like Lancelot, nor am I a wise listener like Arthur. What do you want me to be?"  
Isolde's heart beat faster. "I don't want you to be like them. I just want you to tell me that you still care about me. Or that you have never done so. I just want you to tell me. Either way is fine."

Fire flashed in Tristan's dark eyes.  
"Fine, woman. I don't care about you. You happy now?"

Isolde wasn't happy. She felt, as if he had pulled the ground from under her, but she refused to let him see that, preserving at least a little of her dignity.  
"Fine then" she answered and marched off, her head held high.

Tristan watched her go and he watched her take step after step down the stairs, painfully slow.  
Finally, when she had arrived on the last step, he couldn't take it anymore.  
Perhaps it was a mistake and he would regret it later, but he couldn't have cared less.  
Running down the steps, he quietly shouted : "Isolde! Wait!"

And Isolde did wait, her black hair, barely visible in the darkness hanging over her shoulders and surrounding her head like a black angel's halo.  
And perhaps that was, what she was to him. A black angel. The completion of his own imperfectness.  
"Wait" he said softly again and took her hands in his.  
Such delicate, small hands in comparison to his own, large, rough hands.  
But they were not the hands of a Lady, no they were too rough for that.

"Yes?" Isolde asked breathlessly, at least that was what her voice sounded to him.  
Tristan stared at her, temporarily startled, as he had been so engrossed in the study of her hands.  
She had tilted her head up and looked at him now.  
He didn't really see her face, but he knew what he wanted to do.  
And so he leaned in and kissed her finally.

His lips were surprising warm and soft and if she had been taken by surprise, it only lasted for some seconds, then Isolde kissed him back.  
Finally he pulled back, gasping a little.  
"I-" he really didn't know what to say, which was seldom,but now he was the one left breathless.

Isolde saved him out of this possibly embarrassing situation.  
"You know" she laughed quietly, and now it was so dark, that he couldn't even see her face,  
"If you apologize to me like that all the time, I could get used to it."  
"Dream on, milady" Tristan said, surprising himself with the humour in his voice.  
She really tended to bring a side out of him, that he hadn't even been aware of possessing.

Isolde drew him in for another kiss, and for once he didn't object.  
"We really shouldn't do this" he murmured gruffly, leaning her forehead against hers.  
"You'll soon marry."  
"As if I couldn't care any less" she whispered back.  
"You're the only man, I have ever wanted, Tristan. I love you."  
Tristan winced inwardly. "Once I have told you, that it is bad, liking me. Now I tell you again, it is a bad idea, loving me. I am not good for you."  
"You told me that, yes. But you have to stop thinking with your brain" she put a hand on his forehead, "and start following your heart." She placed a hand on his chest.  
Her eyes met his, when she looked up. "I mean it" she whispered.

"Well then" Tristan hoisted her suddenly up in his arms. "Then I am following, what my heart tells me, and I'll kidnap you."  
"I don't mind" she smiled up at him, fully aware of what was to come, when he opened the door to his quarters, all the while planting hot kisses on her neck.  
Some time later, Tristan was holding Isolde against his bare chest, watching her sleep.

"I love you too" he said quietly.  
Isolde hadn't heard that, because she was sleeping, or so he thought.  
But he didn't see the slight, contended smile on her lips.

* * *

A few weeks later, the atmosphere in the fort was strained and unnatural.  
The knights looked glum, even Lancelot's normal cheerful, quirky exterior wasn't present anymore. Everyone knew now, that Crevan was back and everyone was afraid of his mysterious powers. It was known, that he detested Romans and so everyone was fearing for his life, even those, who were only living with the Romans.  
At night one would watch the shadows, almost expecting for Crevan and a Woad Army to come jumping out of the bushes, which was ridiculous, of course.

Isolde and Branwaine spent their days with Vanora, helping her cook or in the canteen, while Tristan was constantly outside, gathering more information on their enemy.

Isolde was often sitting on the wall, when he was gone, worrying about him silently, missing his deep voice and his strong arms around her.  
When he returned, there were often little words between them, but rather passionate embraces and kisses, and afterwards they found themselves always in Tristan's sparse quarters, both panting heavily.  
Sometimes she felt as if they were both addicted to that contact, as if they couldn't live without it anymore.

Perhaps that was the truth.  
She was careful though, that none of the knights noticed this, and thankfully Percival and Branwaine helped her hide their relationship.

Branwaine was sometimes distant in her thoughts however, and Isolde had once caught her murmuring something about vultures and danger, but when Isolde asked her about it, she only backed away, fear not for herself- but who then?- in her eyes.  
Isolde saddened that behaviour of her friend, but she couldn't help it, and so she spent more and more time atop the wall, in the silent company of the guards, who had eventually come to accept her presence.

* * *

One day, Arthur joined her.

After a while, he said:  
"You know, Lady Isolde, that the arrangement with Lord Marcellus Aurelius still stands, do you?  
We will bring you soon to him , even if this Woad thread isn't over then. I fear we can't afford us to wait any longer, or he will be displeased...and he will complain to Rome. And I think you understand, what happens, if Rome is displeased..."

Isolde did. She nodded, not looking at Arthur.  
She was worried, that he had found out about hers and Tristan's relationship.

"I would advise you not to get too attached to this place. I am really sorry, Isolde, as I have grown very fond of our conversations and of you- but I can't prevent this marriage."

Isolde tilted her head up. She was relieved and at the same time touched by his concern.  
"I am aware, that you can't prevent it, Arthur, and I may not be glad about it, but I know my duty. And about me getting attached to this place and the people- let that be my concern. "  
She stood up and laid a calm hand on his shoulder.

"You worry too much, Arthur. Too much about me, too much about your duties. Think of yourself for a while."

"Much" Arthur said, never taking his eyes of the nebulous land, that stretched endlessly beyond the wall, "has to be considered now. All of our lives hang at one thin thread, and if that thread is snapped off" he held his breath for a while "then I don't know what will happen." Then he looked at her.  
"No, Isolde, I may not worry about myself now. Crevan is back and he will soon wreak havoc again, if we are not careful. Too much is at risk now."

A strangled cry interrupted their conversation. Isolde and Arthur both hurried in the direction, where the sound had come from.  
It was one of the guards, he was lying on the ground, bleeding profusely from an arrow wound in his neck.  
The arrow was still sticking out of his skin like an ugly animal.

Isolde touched the arrowhead and tasted some clear liquid on her tongue, spitting it out immediately."Poison" she said.  
The guard groaned and Isolde laid a hand on his forehead.  
She sadly shook her head at Arthur. Nothing could help him now anymore..  
He had a youthful face and strawberry blond hair and she recognized him as the one, who had always smiled at her, when she had been sitting on the wall all these lonely hours.  
The Roman coughed a last time, some blood flowed out of his mouth, and then he laid still.

Isolde looked up, tears shining in her eyes: " He is dead."

Arthur nodded grimly.  
The other Roman guards had come closer too, and one gasped.  
Another one cried: "I'll fetch the commander" and ran off.  
Quintus Horatius, the only one of the Roman Guards, whom she knew by name, couldn't suppress a choked sob- Isolde knew, that the two had been friends, as she had seen them often standing together at the wall, laughing and chatting.

"What did they do that for? Why did they kill him?" Arthur asked, his eyes never leaving the pallid face of the young Roman.  
"To send us a warning" Tristan said. The scout had seemingly appeared out of thin air.  
"Crevan" Tristan said again, unusually talkative "wants to warn us, not to meddle in his affairs. He wants to determine the time, when he attacks. But we can't let him take control like that."

Isolde didn't listen anymore. She knelt besides the dead Guard, saw the frightened, sorrowful faces of his companions, the tenseness in Arthur's posture, the twitching of Tristan' fingers, a gesture for anxiousness, as she had recently learned a little to see through his wall of impassiveness.

She had to do something. To get someone, who knew Crevan, to talk to them.  
She just knew the person.  
Merlin, the magician.  
But the knights would never agree, nor would Arthur, so she had to do this in secret.

Of course, she couldn't randomly start to attack the Woads, she knew that she was unable to kill someone. She couldn't fight. She couldn't ride very well.  
But perhaps she could do something only a woman could do.

Something a whole lot more…subtle.

* * *

tbc


	16. A dangerous game

_I am terrible, I know! I apologise so much for letting you wait for a whole year!! But I will finish this story. That's a promise. I just cannot tell you when. However, I can tell you, that the next chapter will be up in a few days. That's certain. I'll post the replies to your reviews tomorrow, ok? It's late and I just wanted to upload this chapter, because I didn't want you to have to wait any longer...But I am so grateful for every single review! Thank you so much!!! And I hope that I still have readers left even if I have left you alone for such a long time. Sorry!!! Sachita_

_P.S.: And of course happy holidays and a happy new year to you!!!  
_

* * *

**16. A Dangerous Game**

*****  
**

Isolde's decision had been made. She had even thought of the most fitting strategy already.

But that decision was a dangerous one, and she knew it. Not only dangerous for her life, but also for the strong relationship that she and Tristan had developed.

Nevertheless, she had to do it. Plus, she had to do it without the consent of the knights, because she knew that they would never agree to her plan.

For the purpose of her plan she distanced herself in the next days from Tristan- didn't go to him, when he was standing alone, didn't seek him actively out when he was in the tavern.

She had taken up a job as a resident healer for now, giving out herbs to the local people, treating minor injuries and bruises. Of course there were Roman healers, too, but after some time, the people, especially the women, rather came to her, because she didn't demand so much money, like the Roman healers did. The Roman healers mostly accepted her, because they still had enough patients, who didn't want to be treated by a woman.

Of course, Isolde's new position also allowed her to catch up on the latest rumours and the latest gossip flying around the fort. So it was that she heard of Augustus Stratus, a Roman Wall guard who was said to be gullible and easily distracted by the presence of pretty women.

He was in a way perfect for Isolde's plan and so she sought the Roman out, charming him, flattering him and hating him and herself for it.

But these days in which her plan slowly started to take shape were hard and harrowing days for her- she missed Tristan's presence in her life so much, that it was a real, physical hurt. Tristan himself was bad-tempered all the time, snarling and growling at everyone who dared to cross his path.

Isolde felt nothing but guilty, but she had to do it, no matter how much it hurt. If she allowed herself to be close to Tristan now, her plan wouldn't work.

She had to do it, she told herself again, as she was just sorting out some herbs for a little, gnarled old village woman. She had to. Arthur and the knights were restless, anxious, because they didn't know what to do with the constant threat of Crevan just across the wall. Crevan would strike one day, and it would be a bloody battle, no doubt of it, but who said, that she couldn't change the odds a bit in their favour?

She had thought briefly of inaugurating Arthur, but she had decided against it in the end. No matter how tolerant he was, and no matter how open to new propositions he might be, he would never give his consent to such a daring move.

No.

She was alone. She couldn't even tell Brana. As much sisterly love she had for her friend, she couldn't tell her about it. Branwaine was a sweet girl, but very much in love with the legionnaire Flavius Gnaeus and of the opinion, that warfare and everything related to it were things that were only relevant to men. She wouldn't understand that there also was a different kind of warfare.

Isolde felt as if she were drowning in the middle of people with compassionate smiles on their faces.

Slowly, pensively she put the herbs away, stored them on a little shelf in her cramped room and accepted the thanks of the old woman with a tired smile.

She shut the door softly and closed her eyes, leaning back on the cool wall next to it.

"Isolde?"

The question made her open her eyes quickly. Dagonet was standing there with a concerned look in his eyes. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, quickly forcing a smile on her face, even though she clearly saw, that he wasn't buying it. Not at all.

"You look as if you have the weight of the world upon your shoulders, Isolde," he said again, clearly worried now.

"I am fine," she lied again. Dagonet finally nodded, seeing that he wouldn't get anything out of her.

She smiled at him again and took the way out to the stables. After barely three metres, her arm was grabbed firmly and she was pushed in the shadows of the building next to her. She didn't struggle.

"Tristan," she said weakly.

He didn't acknowledge her greeting. "What are you doing?" he hissed forcibly, and even though the question was asked in a most threatening manner, she heard the underlying tone of hurt.

"What do you mean?" she asked, deliberately misunderstanding him.

"Why are you avoiding me? Why are you spending so much time with that Roman?"

"I can't tell you, Tristan," she cried faintly, trying to free herself from his strong grip.

"Why not?"

"I just can't, Tristan. You will understand it when the time comes."

He snarled violently, almost ferally, and for a moment, she was afraid of him. But when she looked into his amber eyes, she saw such deep hurt, that it broke her heart.

With a trembling hand, she reached out, trying to touch his cheek, but he flinched away.

With another growl, he said: "I'll be going then." Through moist eyes, she saw him turn away from her and walk away with long strides. When he was almost around the corner of the building, he spun around and slammed his fist in the wall.

Isolde winced harshly. When he was out of sight, she slid down the wall and harsh, loud sobs shook her body.

* * *

On the next day, she looked for Augustus Stratus.

"Say, dear Augustus, you wouldn't mind doing me a favour, would you?"

Completely overwhelmed, the young Roman shook his head.

* * *


	17. Perilous Paths

_Hi! Here I am again. Surprised? Yeah, me too. Never thought I'd be able to upload the next chapter before the New Year. Maybe (who knows), I'll even upload the 18th chapter before 2009...but I can't promise anything. Also, thank you very much for your review, **Rhysel**_!_ (Answers to reviews are, as always in my profile)_

_-Sachita^^  
_

**

* * *

**

**17. Perilous Paths**

*******

Some days after Isolde's confrontation with Tristan, the knights left on a mission.

Isolde stood on the wall and waved them good-bye, as did Branwaine.

The knights, who glanced up at her, waved back, but Tristan didn't. Isolde however, was sure, that he had seen her. Branwaine noticed her tenseness and followed her gaze to Tristan's back, however, Isolde didn't wait for her undoubtedly concerned questions.

Nimble-footed, she went down the stairs, determination showing on her features.

Tonight she would do it. Tonight was perfect . The knights were away, would only come back in a few days. Branwaine had a tryst with Flavius Gnaeus, as far as she knew and Vanora was far too occupied with her kids to notice her absence.

Yes, tonight was perfect.

So she gathered her skirts up, and with measured long steps she made her way to the quarters to prepare what she needed.

Dawn was already falling, when Isolde was finished. She took her black horse, which was named Domingo by the reins and charmed a stable hand into holding him for a while by using her sweetest smile and a coin of no great value. He was naïve and completely overwhelmed and stammered only a : "Yes, Ma'am."

Satisfied, Isolde strode up to the wall, where Augustus Stratus was standing. He cut an imposing figure in his armour and his red cape, but Isolde wasn't intimidated.

"Augustus," she said sweetly, when she came to stand in front of him.

"Yes, Milady?" he stammered.

She hated it. She hated him for being so gullible. She hated herself for using him as a tool. She hated Crevan for existing, and she hated Tristan for not trying to understand. But in the end it all came down to her despising herself for her current actions.

"Would you do me the favour, I asked you for two days ago, now?"

"I will, Ma'am," he only said, admiration shining in his eyes.

"Good. Please, do it now."

"Yes, Ma'am." Isolde was already rushing down the staircase again.

"When will you return, Milady?" he shouted after her.

"I don't know yet, " she shouted back, glad when he didn't ask more questions.

She fetched Domingo and rode up to the gate, inwardly anxious. But the gate opened, thanks to Augustus. Silently she thanked the gods for giving her that Roman and his naïve, unceasing admiration of her.

She nodded her thanks to her silent, unintentional co-conspirator, as she passed the gate.

He didn't nod back, didn't even incline his head. Isolde knew that he couldn't give her a sign, that would have been far too suspicious.

Thus she urged Domingo into canter.

Secretly, she was glad to get away from the fort and its inhabitants, Augustus Stratus and all her problems. The knights were away, but Vanora and Brana weren't. Of course they had noticed the tension between her and Tristan, as they were the only ones who knew of their relationship- especially Brana would have noticed as she had witnessed the knights farewell this morning- so, of course these two would ask her a lot of questions.

Isolde just wasn't sure if she was up for that. Furthermore there was Augustus Stratus. If she had seen him as a naïve young man, who would do anything for his admired Lady at first, she would have been blind as to not have seen the lustful glint in his eyes whenever he looked at her. And he was young, yes, but that didn't mean he couldn't be dangerous. Maybe he would now be thinking, that he could call in a favour, too- Isolde shuddered, as she thought about it.

"C'mon Domingo," she urged her lovely horse again, eager to get into the forest. After all, who knew, where Tristan's eyes – that is his hawk- were.

When they reached the edge of the forest, Isolde allowed them a short reprieve.

"I am glad that you are here Domingo," she told her horse softly, patting his neck and still feeling utterly alone, here among these foreign, huge green trees. Domingo snorted gently.

Sighing deeply, Isolde took up the reins again. "Let's go, Domingo."

The ground under Domingo's hooves was soft and mossy. Domingo trod carefully and suddenly conscious that she was technically in enemy territory, Isolde warily looked around. The trees were high and so thick! – so different from home, where there were trees too, yes, but not as high, not as thick. Low bushes were growing around the trees and blue fog drifted between them.

_I am mad,_ Isolde thought.

With the sense of someone, who has lived in a forest for all his life, she could feel that they were watching her. She even thought to have seen blue flashes between the trees, like lithe, elegantly-moving bodies.

"I greet you," she shouted in the Woad language- a language, she only knew a few words in- a smattering of it, that her grandmother, who had been a Woad Lady, had taught her.

"My name is Isolde, of the Morini," she continued in Latin, naming her tribe with its native name.

"I am here to speak with Merlin. Please, take me to him. I know that you are here."

Nothing happened. Isolde waited, there was only the rustling of the leaves in the wind.

Suddenly, a shadow disengaged itself from a tree. It was a young Woad woman , who was maybe as old as her, with long flaxen hair dark eyes and blue body paintings. She was wearing some kind of leather garb.

"Dismount," she said calmly in clear Latin.

"My name is Isolde," Isolde started again, once she had hesitatingly dismounted.

"We know that," the woman said stoically. "We also know that you live at the fort. So, tell us, Isolde of the Morini, why do you desire to speak to Merlin?"

"I wish to speak to Merlin," Isolde began haltingly, "because I believe I have some valuable information to give him."

"You can give that important piece of information to me, too."

Isolde decided to play this game differently.

"Tell me, Lady of the Woads, does a blood relative need any further justification to speak with his ancestor?" After these words, Isolde drew out the amulet, that her grandmother had given her, when she had been scarcely sixteen years old.

"Isa, my sweet, this is for you," she had told her granddaughter, drawing out the simple chain with the amulet dangling from it. Isolde had gasped and had looked closely at it. It was a black _taehir_ , an eerie, overwhelming dragon of old, which was carved out of wood, as if it was just in the process of swooping down to catch unsuspecting prey. Its eyes glowed with the fire of a volcano, thanks to rare red stones. It was finely crafted and Isolde had been overjoyed to receive that gift from her beloved grandmother, who had passed on shortly after. However, she hadn't realised its significance at first, not until her grandmother had pointed it out to her:

"My dear child, if you ever come to Britain and are in trouble, show any Woad that amulet and tell him to take you to Merlin. Merlin will know that amulet immediately, as he only gave such amulets to the ones in his kinsfolk, that he held in high regard. And being held in regard by Merlin is something special, believe me. You will know why I said that, child, if you ever shall encounter him. The path of destiny is nebulous and perilous , Isolde, but," and her grandmother had tilted up her chin to make her look at her, " know, that wherever you will be, I will be there with you. Even if I have long since passed on."

"Oh Nana," she had chided. "Don't speak of such depressing subjects." Her grandmother had simply smiled, with that sage smile, that all elders seem to have. Isolde wondered to this day , if maybe she had already known then, that she was to die soon.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Isolde looked up, seeing the flaxen-haired Woad woman finally come in her direction. She and some other Woads, who had appeared like ghosts out of the forest, had held a conference for some time, leaving Isolde, where she was standing, with Domingo's reins in the hand and an occasional nudge, courtesy of Domingo, in the back.

But oh, she had no doubt, and had to live with the worrying knowledge for long, long minutes, that she was being watched- by Woads with drawn bows.

"We have decided," the Woad woman said with a cool smile.

"Good," Isolde replied as coolly.

"We will take you to Crevan and see what he says. But we expect, that he will let you speak to Merlin."

Isolde nodded. There was more, she could sense it.

"However," her interlocutor added and this time her smile was decidedly derisive, "we have also come to the conclusion, that, if you cause trouble, we can still shoot you. Now come."

_Oh great_, Isolde thought acerbically and followed the Woads in the forest.

The path of destiny is perilous, her grandmother had said.

_Yes, Nana, it is, it is indeed._

The Woods quickly swallowed the sounds of the little group, and soon there was no indication, that they had ever been there.

* * *

tbc...


	18. Merlin

_This time I certainly won't update again before 2009, so: Happy new year to you all! Or how we say in Germany: "Einen guten Rutsch ins Neue Jahr!" Literally translated it means something like: " A good slide into the new year!" A bit strange, I know :D So, thank you for your reviews, **ILuvOdie** and **Rhysel**_. _Review replies are in my profile ^^ _

_Sachita  
_

* * *

**18. Merlin**

*****  
**

Eventually, they arrived at the Woads' camp.

"You wait here," the flaxen-haired Woad woman, who had yet to introduce herself, said.

Isolde nodded and stayed where she was, the dampness of the mossy ground slowly seeping through the hem of her dress. Some children, who played with mud and little sticks, eyed her curiously. Isolde attempted a smile, however, the children quickly looked away and ignored her.

At last, the fur, that covered the entrance to the biggest hut was removed and an old, not very tall man stepped out and walked over to Isolde.

"So, you're Isolde," he said, grabbing her chin and drawing her closer. Isolde tensed.

"Yes, I am," she replied, trying to pour as much confidence as she could muster in her voice. "You must be Crevan."

"Yes, that`s me." He had a wrinkled face, blue, dead eyes and long, tangled white hair. He was wearing a long cape made out of fur with paw-prints-like shapes sewn on it. He emanated danger. Isolde shivered involuntarily.

"I wish to speak to Merlin," she said.

"Why?"

"I am his relative- from Gaul. Isolde of the Morini."

"She has some kind of amulet, " the Woad Woman interjected, and once again, Isolde drew the amulet out. Crevan made a move as if he wanted to take it, but then he withdrew his hand, looking pensive.

"Yes, that is Merlin's amulet," an ancient-looking Woad, who had appeared at Isolde's side said, sounding awe-struck. "I haven't seen one like that for – well, for a long time, certainly."

He fixed Crevan with a reproachful glare. "We should let her speak to Merlin, Crevan."

Crevan hesitated.

"He is right," another voice said. This time it was a young man. "Merlin still has a lot of power. We shouldn't provoke his anger."

Isolde was relieved. For now it looked as if everything was on her side.

"Fine, fine, " Crevan snapped irritably. "Just get her out of my sight. Bring her to Merlin, Lanay."

Lanay, the flaxen-haired Woad woman nodded and bowed respectfully. To Isolde, she said: "Follow me."

Isolde followed the woman deeper in the Woods and in the swirling mist, that was apparently everywhere.

They didn't converse- Isolde was not keen on striking up a conversation with Lanay, plus, there really was nothing that she could say to her.  
" We are here," Lanay said simply, then disappeared ghost-like back in the forest.

* * *

Isolde looked after her, then took a deep breath and looked at the simple hut in front of her. It was made out of leaves, clay and wattle- materials that could be found everywhere, which made for a home, that could be easily rebuilt. She was eager and at the same time terrified to meet Merlin- that distant cousin of her grandmother, who had been very fond of him, yet had told her only little about him.

"Merlin," she called softly. Nothing happened. "Merlin."

A blue flash- Isolde wasn't sure if it was maybe only her imagination- and the cry of an owl, then Merlin was suddenly standing in front of her.

"Hello dear child," he said in a deep voice. "I am happy that you are finally here."

Merlin.

Shocked and at the same time terrified Isolde could only stare at the man in front of her. No one had told him her name, had they ? Not of remarkable height, he cut an impressing figure nonetheless. His hair was brown and reached his shoulders and he had a tangled beard. On the left side of his forehead there were three markings, which looked to Isolde as if they were the heads of three arrows. But his eyes, oh, his eyes! Isolde found herself getting lost in them.

Situated underneath thick, energetic dark brows, his eyes were of a hard-to-define colour. They looked both green and brown to Isolde, but there was a touch of grey, too. They were pools of wisdom, ageless bottomless seas of unfathomable knowledge. Isolde felt the touch of the magic of the Elders, the Magic, all tribes believed in. Isolde could feel that magic around Merlin- he emanated it, it was there like an aura, like a signature. The Romans would probably declare it all to be nonsense, but the people of the forest knew better. Certain people had that gift. Merlin was one of them.

Isolde involuntarily shuddered in the face of so much power bundled up in one man.

Merlin, who had probably been aware of her close scrutiny, smiled kindly at her.

"You are the spitting image of your grandmother, when she was young. Tell me, how does dear Aoibhe fare?"

"She," Isolde cleared her throat. "She passed away years ago, I am afraid."

Merlin looked sad and nodded. "How come I did not know?" he said softly aloud, showing the first sign of normal human behaviour- Isolde was actually glad for it.

"You can't know everything, Sire," she told him respectfully.

"Please." Merlin's smile was back. "It's Merlin, dear child. But you have not come to assure an old man of his abilities or the lack thereof , have you?" His humour was good, if a little dark. Isolde smiled back at him, feeling a little more secure in his presence, which was, what he surely had intended.

"No, Merlin, I haven't. Actually I have something to ask of you."

Merlin must have seen something in her eyes, for he said: " Let us set out to a place where no one can disturb us. If you would follow me."

Isolde followed him, until they reached a little clearing, which seemed unremarkable at first, but Isolde could feel the magic hanging in the air. Merlin's magic. Merlin himself sat down on a large stone and Isolde allowed herself to sink down next to him.

"It is about Crevan," she simply said.

Merlin didn't look surprised in the slightest. "I expected that," he calmly said.

"There is a battle to be fought," Isolde went on, not missing a beat. "It is to be fought soon."

Merlin didn't reply at first. Then he said slowly: "Yes. The young Woads are blinded by Crevan's rash words. They don't see that an open battle would eradicate our whole people. Of course Artorius must act, of course there will be a bloody battle, fought with the blood and sweat of many brave men. Many will die."

"Not so many if we can help it," Isolde replied, surprising herself with her intensity.

Merlin caught on quickly. "You are asking me to fight against my own blood?" he asked.

Again, there was no surprise in his voice.

"Please, listen to me," Isolde begged. "Crevan is a danger to us all with his foolhardy ways and his great power. We will never be able to defeat him. He will take over your position in the tribe, don't you see it ? He is a danger to you, too. Your ways, Merlin, are different of his. You are both brutal, but that's what you have to be. That is what this land is like, I have finally comprehended that now. It's not so different from Gaul. The free tribes are brought to their knees everywhere by the Roman Empire. But this time the danger comes from within. Many young Woads follow him already- what if their number gets higher? What if Crevan starts a bloody war, after which your whole tribe has become extinct? What if he turns against them? He doesn't care about them as you do, Merlin, he's callous. That's the difference."

Isolde stopped. She was panting in exertion from her long speech. Merlin smiled at her again. He looked almost amused.

"That was a long speech, my child. But you are right. I knew of this before. However, I did not want to face it. You truly are right. We have to fight him before his hold over the Woad people gets even stronger."

"We are agreed, then?" Isolde couldn't believe it.

" We are agreed. But we shall not fight in the open along with Artorius and his knights. They hold great hatred for us in their hearts, as do many of my warriors for them."

"What about you?" Isolde asked, holding her breath.

"I," Merlin said, "do not hate them. I respect them. They only do what they are compelled to do. This land has been soaked with their blood as well. They are fierce warriors, fierce like us, and if our purpose was the same, we would very well be able to fight side by side. However, we are destined to be on opposite sides."

He made a short pause, then smiled, a kind, compassionate smile. "You love him, do you not, dear child?"

Isolde blushed all the way up to her ears and Merlin laughed, a genuine laugh. It was a pleasant sound and Isolde found herself laughing along with him.

"You have my blessing, child," Merlin said warmly. "He is a free spirit, your Tristan, as are you. You belong to each other like two sides of a coin. He is a ruthless warrior and no knight has killed as many of us as he has, but I respect him. He is right for you."

Isolde blushed again, this time with pleasure. It was good to hear someone of her blood voice his approval, and she was glad, that Merlin did it in her father's stead. "He respects you, too, I think," she replied.

"He does, in his own way, " Merlin answered indifferently. Isolde found herself looking at him, sure, that there was a story somewhere, but she didn't want to ask.

"Before you go, Isolde, I have two things for you." Merlin got up and drew a pipe, made out of fired clay out of one of his many pockets. It was finely engraved and decorated with flowery shapes. "Take this pipe. If you are ever in trouble, blow in it. The people of the forest will come and help you." Isolde thanked him and put the pipe into her linen bag.

He then whistled, a shrill, high tone. After some minutes of waiting, a small, blue bird appeared out of the forest and landed on Merlin's arm, who then gave it to Isolde.

"This is Anarya, " he said. "She is trained to fly back to me, if you say _"Donoî!"_ to her."

"Fly," Isolde breathed, recognising the word from her sparse knowledge of the Woad language.

"Yes. Say this to her on the eve of the day of attack. I shall have my warriors ready and Arthur shall never know of it."

"Thank you," Isolde exhaled and felt out of no particular reason, how her eyes suddenly grew moist.

"Thank you, Merlin."

"The winds of peace shall carry you on their wings, my child," Merlin's hoarse voice seemed to fade into the swirling blue mists, that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

He touched her forehead gently and smiled warmly at her. "We shall meet again, do not fear, for you are of my blood. For now, farewell." He turned around, a quick movement, and suddenly he had disappeared seemingly into thin air. Isolde released a breath she hadn't been conscious of holding and smiled. "Farewell, Merlin," she whispered and the wind carried her words away.

Isolde whistled for Domingo. Her loyal mare came out of the forest.

"Come, Domingo," she said and sat up. "Let's go. Quickly, so that we are back at the fort before sunset." She spurred him into canter and soon they had, too, disappeared in the mist, the bird securely nestled under Isolde's long cape.

* * *


	19. Shadows' Dance

* * *

_Hello everyone! An update for you, I hope you like it. Please leave me a review! Tristan reappears (finally) in this chapter. Thanks a lot for your kind reviews, **Rhysel** and **ILuvOdie** (Review replies: see profile)_, _I hope you like this chapter, too. As you might have noticed, I have started revising the first chapters. Please tell me what you think about it (=_

_-Sachita_

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**19. Shadows' Dance**

*****  
**

Isolde felt as if she couldn't breathe, when she arrived at the fort. Evening was already falling, casting bluish shadows over the buildings, bathing the men, who sat in the tavern under the torches in a strange glow.

No one had noticed her absence, so the petite Gaul woman quietly hushed through the torch-lit corridors, trying to ignoring the strange shadows, that the torches cast on the wall and finally disappearing in her quarters to change in new clothes and to take care of the bird.

When she emerged, she ran straight into Branwaine.  
Feeling her heart sinking, she waited for the inevitable argument.  
However, to her surprise, Branwaine dragged her into an empty room.

"Isolde, " she gushed. "You won't believe what just happened."

"What is that?" Isolde raised an eyebrow.

"Flavius- he- he – asked me to marry him!" Branwaine stammered in her excitement and hardly got the words out.

Isolde took in her rosy cheeks, her bright eyes, her disheveled hair and her radiant smile.

"Brana, I am so happy for you!" she said earnestly, drawing her into a warm hug. "I wish you all the best,"she breathed, feeling not only genuine happiness for her friend, but also a small portion of envy.

Tristan and her would never have what these two had. Not only was she to be married – sold, better- to another man- Tristan and settling down? She almost snorted at the thought.  
Their love was neither sweet nor innocent- it was like a series of violent clashes, fuelled by burning desire and deceptively calm, tender times in between these impacts. If she had to compare it to anything, it would not be a blooming rose, but rather a gnawing hunger or a restless fire.

She sighed and finally asked the question, she had wanted to ask all along: "Do you love him?"

Branwaine didn't hesitate. "Yes, I do, Isa. Very much so."

Isolde smiled at the old nickname. Being in Britain had loosened Branwaine up- she had finally got used to calling Isolde again by nicknames or her given name. She was glad for it.  
Suddenly her expression changed and became overcast. "Oh no, My Lady!"

Isolde was wondering, what had triggered that fallback in the old routine, when she continued: "I completely forgot- you are to be married to that Roman Lord! I will have to decline Flavius's proposal."

"What?!" Isolde thought that she might have troubles hearing. "You will do none of the sort, do you understand me?"

"But- I can't let you- let you go alone, Isa," Branwaine sounded anxious.

"Yes, you can," Isolde said forcibly. "I can manage it on my own."  
"No!" Branwaine protested and some of her old spirit was back in her voice. "I can't leave you alone!"

Isolde took her hand and tried to dispel the sudden moistness in her eyes.  
"Brana," she said. "Brana, listen to me. You are my best friend and I want you to be happy. I am going to be miserable, when I marry that Roman, there is no need for both of us to feel that way. Hush, don't say anything now," she added, when she saw Branwaine open her mouth to object.  
"I want you to go to Flavius and accept his proposal. Now. So I can at least be happy on your behalf. Will you do that- for me?"  
Branwaine nodded and then, without a word, she hugged Isolde tightly.

"You love your Tristan, too, don't you?" she whispered next to her ear, blond wisps of hair tickling Isolde's nose. She nodded silently into Branwaine's shoulder.  
"Then go for it." With that she released her hold on Isolde and stepped back, before abruptly running from the room, shouting over her shoulder: "I will do now what you told me to!"

Isolde grinned. However, Branwaine stopped once more, turning around and fixing Isolde with an earnest gaze: "Isa, what I meant to tell you: The knights are presumably already returning this night. Rumours is, that one of them is wounded. Very badly."

Isolde felt faint. "Who?" she asked.

"I have no idea."

Isolde nodded weakly and waved Branwaine away, who left, not without giving her a last, concerned look.

***

Isolde reached out to steady herself on the wall. She stood like that for several minutes, trying to calm herself. Finally she took a deep, shuddering breath and hurried to the gate.  
Upon reaching the stairs to the wall, she took several steps at once, trying to get as fast as possible to the coping.

"Where are they?" she asked out of breath.

The silent Roman Wall guard raised his arm and Isolde followed it with her eyes.

In the distance, a small dot approached and grew steadily bigger.

"One Rider," the guard said, his eyes still focused on the slight figure in the distance.

Long, tormenting minutes passed. The rider had now come so close, that Isolde could make out a black cloak and dark, flying braids.

"It's the Sarmatian scout," the Guard muttered, but Isolde didn't hear him. She was already flying down the stairs, a mixture of apprehension and relief etched on her features.  
Relief- Tristan wasn't hurt- and apprehension- she had come to like all of the knights.  
Tristan galloped in on his dappled white steed and dismounted, taking his horse by the reins.  
"Tristan!" Isolde called. He halted mid-step.

She gripped his arm. "Who is hurt?" Tristan tensed, but she didn't let go.  
"It's Herman," he said shortly. "He took an arrow to the chest."

Isolde gasped, but she still didn't let go. Her gaze travelled over him and stopped at his right thigh. A blood-soaked bandage was wrapped haphazardly around it.  
"You're hurt," Isolde said accusingly.

" 'Tis but a scratch," he said dismissively. "You should see to Herman, when he arrives."  
Isolde thought for a second. "When are they coming?"  
"Two hours. Road is clear," was the bland reply.  
She nodded. "Come with me."

He eyed her impassively, but then a look of exhaustion flitted over his face and he nodded stiffly, following her to her chamber.  
Isolde pointed to the bed, willing her confused emotions, whenever she looked at him, to go away and give way for her professional healer's attitude.  
He sat down without a word of protest, and while she was sorting out some antiseptic herbs, Isolde allowed herself to sneak little looks at him. His hair was a mess, his face had a sickly ashen pallor and his eyes were red-rimmed. His hands rested on his knees and he leaned forward a tad, looking nothing short of exhausted,now, that he had allowed the mask to disappear, thinking himself unobserved.

"What happened?" she asked, still not turning around.

"An Ambush. Woads," he replied in that lilting accent, that she had always loved to hear.

"You must be exhausted."

"I am fine," he said shortly. Isolde bit her lip and nodded, then she turned around. "This might sting a bit."

He shrugged uncaringly.

She cut his pant-leg open and lovingly tended to his wound. To his credit, he only flinched a little, when she began administering the antiseptics.  
"This is for cleaning the wound," she explained softly.

"You have healing hands," Tristan said suddenly. Surprised, she looked at him, but he didn't offer more, so she continued her work. When she had applied the bandage,she stayed where she was.

"I am sorry for my behavior the last weeks." She didn't meet his eyes and he didn't reply, except sighing and shifting his leg a bit.

Isolde figured that now it was a good time as any to continue.  
"It's hard to love a man like you," she mumbled softly, yet she knew, that he would have no trouble understanding her.

"You're not the kind of man I thought I'd ever fall in love with. But I have. And I can't bear to be without you." Isolde didn't meet his eyes. "And I know that it is foolish," she whispered, her eyes downcast, "to give my heart to you whilst I am to be sold to another man. But I can't help it."

Tristan made a strangled sound and when she finally lifted her gaze, she looked directly into his amber eyes. His face was strangely open, vulnerable, almost.

They gazed at each other for a long time.

Then, suddenly, Tristan bent down and picked her up, crushing her against his chest.

"You have a way about you, Isolde," he said, his lilting accent softening the harsh Latin sounds. "Once I told you, that it is bad, loving me."

He searched her eyes and then continued in a low voice: "Now I don't care for my words anymore, because, I love you."

He said it in his simple, short way of speaking but to Isolde, it was more true and sincere than any eloquent declaration of love could ever be. He had called her Isolde , she noted absentmindedly. Another long moment of calm silence passed. Isolde had never been a big talker, and neither was Tristan.

She was startled, when he shifted in her arms. She pulled away from him and looked in his eyes. They were feral and wild. "You are betrothed to that Roman," he snarled, sudden, violent anger overcoming him.

Isolde knew that this side of him existed, yet she was glad when she didn't see it. She knew what he was like on the battlefield, ruthless and feral, she had watched him killing others with that strange glint in his eyes that many mistook for pleasure.

"You scared of me?" he questioned in a low voice, when he saw her staring at him.

"No," Isolde breathed and settled back in his arms. "I could never be afraid of you."

"Good," he said. "I would never harm you, you know that."

It was no question, just a simple, calm statement, and so Isolde didn't respond.

Instead, Tristan continued, once again with that feral look:

"I could kill him for you. Rip his heart out!"

Isolde put a hand on the side of his face. "We both know that this is impossible, Tristan," she mumbled and heard how her own accent tinged her words.

"The Romans have always taken things that don't belong to them. We both know that."

Isolde smiled cheerlessly. "Maybe that is to be our fate. Forever together in spirit, yet forever apart in body."

Tristan's face was unreadable, as always, but a short flash of anger appeared in the amber depths of his eyes.

"Not if I can help it," he growled and pulled her to him. She held on for dear life.

"I am sorry," she said quietly. "For the things I have done and for the things that I will do."

He pulled away then, confusion showing on his features, but when he opened his mouth to ask a question, the door flew open and they hastily broke apart.

It was Vanora with a half-smile dancing on her face, when she saw them. It vanished quickly.

"Isolde," she said earnestly, "The knights have returned. Dagonet needs your help."

* * *

_Please, if you liked it, leave me a review. You would make my day, really, you would!!!_

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	20. To Die

_I am really sad )=. A writer practically lives on reviews, and so you could say that I am close to starving )= Does no one like this story anymore?_

_But regardless of that, I will keep updating, I promise. I am not the kind of writer who bases his writing on the number of reviews he gets. I am doing this for mutual enjoyment - yours and mine. However, that doesn't mean that I wouldn't perform somersaults if someone leaves me a review. In fact, I would be jumping around the place and grinning for ages if I got some feedback. So, please, be nice to me, brighten my day up and tell me what you thought about it. Criticism is appreciated, too._

_Oh, and I am working on rewriting the earlier chapters till chapter eight. Then I am finished with my "construction work"._

* * *

**20. To Die**

*****  
**

Isolde stared at the red swirls that were slowly being carried downstream by the current of the little creek, then she looked back at her hands, which were despite her throrough scrubbing still smelling of blood.

Herman was dead. She let the words linger on her tongue for a moment and considered their dark, ugly taste.

Dead.

She hadn't known the knights for long, but she had come to hold them in high regard despite their flaws and the savage side they possessed on the battlefield.

And now Herman was dead. One of their own.

Dagonet, the Roman healers and her had worked tirelessly for half a night to save his life, but it had been all futile.

Isolde sat at the river for a long time, just watching the shimmering water.

When evening fell, she had long since risen and gone away to help Vanora in the tavern.

Far away, the red swirls had already merged with the water.

* * *

It was dark outside. The light of the tavern shone in the dark night like a beacon, beckoning everyone to come and satisfy their thirst.

"What are they doing?" Isolde asked Vanora with a low voice, staring at the assembled fifteen knights at one of the tables. Arthur was absent.

They looked almost solemn, as if they were preparing for something.

"Getting drunk," Vanora told her in a whisper. "They always do that when they've lost one of their own." A sad frown twisted her face and for a moment, she seemed to look past Isolde at the knights, yet at the same time through them, in another time maybe?

"I remember when that table," she indicated the knights' table, then smiled with a faraway look in her eyes and pointed to two other tables ,"and these here used to be full. Young Sarmatians everywhere, and there I was, a little young stupid thing, not knowing my way around; and that was when I fell for that loud brute over there…"

Her smile slowly vanished and she turned back to Isolde.  
"Believe me, they'll be getting nasty tonight. You should better go before it gets too bad."

"Why nasty?"

Vanora chuckled darkly. "Some of them will start picking fights, like my very own brute over there is likely to do; others will start to brood over their ale; but basically they all intend to get dead drunk."

"Tristan too?" Isolde couldn't believe it.

Vanora nodded grimly. "He is nasty in a different way when he's drunk, he is. Either he starts getting violent and cruel, which is bad for anyone who dares to cross him, or he disappears behind his ale."

Vanora eyed the scout in question for a moment, then she added quietly:

"However, dearie, I have never seen him passed out from drink. Drunk as he may have been; he has always managed to leave on his own."

* * *

Tristan noticed the women's stare and caught Vanora's gaze, knowing better than to try and stare her down. She wasn't Bors's woman for nothing; and so, he looked away with a snarl and stared in his ale.

Herman had been a good comrade and his loss felt like he had lost another piece of himself.  
He knew they all felt this way; as it had been blood like theirs and skin like theirs, born in a land of rolling hills and endless grass deserts; a soul like theirs, bound to the beliefs of their forefathers.

"I can't believe he is gone," Galahad sounded close to crying.

Tristan refrained from commenting; he knew that his words would only anger the pup; and he didn't want any more wounds to be opened up this night.

"Didn't deserve none of it," Bedivere muttered darkly, eyeing the rim of his mug.

"Yes," Gareth chimed in. "He was supposed to return home with us."

"He will be missed." Dagonet had spoken up with a heavy sadness in his voice and Tristan cast a sharp, surprised look at him, knowing that the other liked to maintain a silence so similar to his own, yet so different at these occasions.

"His spirit now meanders the wide plains of Sarmatia as a proud stallion. He waits for us."

Tristan wasn't sure why he had contributed, but maybe it had something to do with the heavy look in Dagonet's eyes. Tristan knew that Herman had been as close to a little brother to Dagonet, as it could get; and Tristan also knew that he had loved him with the genuine love a brother feels for his kinship, for Tristan rarely missed anything.

Their heads had all turned to look at him when he had finished.

They were surprised. As was he.

"Hear, hear," Gawain eventually announced, his words already softly slurred by drink.

"Let's get drunk." Bors's gruff announcement was greeted with heartfelt nods all around the table. Tristan didn't nod, but he agreed.

Getting drunk sounded like a very sensible option indeed.

Some hours and many drinks later, he rose from his seat sluggishly and stumbled abruptly, almost falling over.

He looked on with unfocused eyes over his fellow knights. Lancelot and Gawain were slumped over the table; Bedivere and Galahad were looking for trouble, it seemed as they were in a heated debate with some Romans. Percival watched them from his seat, slightly swaying. Tristan noted the others sitting or lying around in various positions, too, and when he had made sure of that; he slowly made his way to Vanora, who was cleaning some mugs, a frown twisting her face, as she surveyed them.

"Vanora," he said.

She looked up, half-annoyed, half in sad understanding. "You are drunk."

He didn't bother to reply. "You seen Isolde?"

Vanora creased her brow. "She has gone away an hour ago or so. Said she would go to her quarters."

Tristan nodded and pushed away from the wall.

"Tristan!" Vanora called after him.

He turned around, only to be met with the mug that she was cleaning, pushed into his face.

"She is a good girl. Do not dare to hurt her or else-" She gesticulated wildly with the mug, making him dizzy. However, he appreciated her courage, seeing the glint of fear in her eyes, even though they both knew that he would never hurt a fellow knight's woman.

"I won't hurt her," he said shortly.

The warm smile that she gave him was unexpected and genuine.

"You know, I will keep this quiet. I am happy for the both of you."

He nodded again, never having known how to reply to such a bland statement and stalked out of the tavern.

* * *

She had been sleeping but she woke up quickly from the sound of footsteps coming closer, then stopping in front of her door.

"Who is there?" she called, sitting up in her bed.

No answer came, instead, the door swung open with a loud creak.

Isolde gazed fearfully at the dark form that came towards her and grabbed a shoe.

"I can defend myself!" she cried.

"Easy there, it's just me."

"Tristan?"

The person didn't reply, but she knew that it was him.

"What are you doing here?" she asked softly, stepping up to him.

At first he didn't reply, but then he said quietly: "I don't rightly know."

Isolde's heart ached at these soft words. "I am sorry for your loss," she spoke in the darkness.

"You don't understand anything of my loss!" he exploded suddenly and violently.

Shocked she backed away from him.

"I am sorry," he said finally, the alcohol slurring his speech.

"Tell me about it then," she requested softly, not reacting to his apology.

"About what?"

"Your loss," she breathed, searching his eyes in the dark.

"I am no good at story telling," he evaded her sluggishly, robbed of his quick-wittedness by his inebriation, just like it had deprived him of his graceful, cat-like movements.

"Sit down before you fall over," Isolde told him dryly. He actually obeyed her, but that might have been due to the fact that his legs could hardly carry him.

"What do you want to know?" he asked, sounding resigned.

"Tell me about Dinadan."

He was silent for a long time. Then, when she wanted to apologise for asking, he took a deep breath and started to speak in his short, terse way: "Dinadan was my cousin. He was five years younger than me. As a boy, he was always full of mischief, always planning something."

Isolde drew her knees up to her chin and nodded, even though she knew that he couldn't see her. "My family was killed."

Isolde took a deep breath, not knowing what to say at first. "How?" she then asked tenderly.

"Romans," Tristan said shortly, clearing his throat, continuing quickly: "Anyway, when I had seen fifteen summers, I was taken by the Romans. They took Dinadan too. Yllona, my aunt, told me to look out for him."

Isolde leaned against him and to her surprise he didn't shy away from her touch, like he sometimes did, but instead leaned into her.

"As you can imagine, we often fought. Dinadan was too different from me."

Isolde chuckled a bit, imagining the young, vivacious boy and his stoic elder cousin.

"I can imagine that," she teased him softly, but he didn't react.

"He was killed on a mission, in the one moment, the only moment, that…I didn't pay attention," he finished, anguish tinting his words.

"The last member of my family had to die because I wasn't paying attention!" he suddenly yelled loudly, a rare occurrence for the silent scout.

"Hush," Isolde soothed him as one would sooth a wild creature and pulled him closer.

He didn't resist, but to her surprise, she found him trembling slightly, which was as close as Tristan could ever come to breaking down.

For a moment she felt almost afraid of the amount of trust he was putting into her by showing her him at his most vulnerable, but then her hands mechanically started to stroke his back in a soothing motion.

"No man is an island, Tristan," she told him softly. He made a small, anguished sound and she didn't let go.

"We are all dying," he told her suddenly lowly.

"This wretched island won't let us go, none of us."

Isolde almost pulled away in shock. "How can you say that?" she asked incredulously.

"You have drunk too much," the Gaul then breathed, pulling him closer.

"I may have imbibed too much," he replied, sounding more like his calm self, "but I do not mistake the signs of nature. I have killed too many sons of this land. It won't let me go again. It's in the murmuring streams and in the soughing winds of the pine forests. It's in every grass blade and in every red sunrise. I hear it."

"You can't leave me, Tristan," she said desperately, and now she was the one clinging to him, there in the darkness.

For a moment, he was silent. Then he said: "Do not ask of me to make promises I can't keep."

And softly, so softly, that she would have missed it, if she hadn't listened so closely, he added: "Please."  
Isolde felt her eyes burn. "I will not ask it of you," she choked.

"Don't cry," he murmured quietly, the effects of the alcohol finally catching up with him.

"Do not cry…"

Isolde heard how his breaths evened out and held onto him for dear life. Despite of what he had said to her, she just couldn't stop the tears. They kept on coming and coming, running down her face and dripping on the pillow.

She remembered what she had told him not a day ago: "We will be forever together in spirit, but forever apart in body."

The impact of her own words hit her and sobs rose up in her throat.  
"No," she cried softly, sobs wracking her body. "No."

She might have been Isolde, Princess of the Morini, betrothed to a Roman Lord, a strong woman with healing hands, but presently she was no more than a frightened little girl crying in the dark.

* * *

_Feedback? )=_


	21. Deceptively Clear Waters

_New chapter, I hope all of you like it (= Thank you for your kind reviews, __**Rhysel** and __**Aerlinniel-lairiel.**_

_As you might have noticed, I have finally arrived in the present and reply to the reviews via review reply feature. It does not mean, however, that I am any less grateful for them! In fact, I love getting reviews (= But I think you know that already._

_ I realised today that Chapter 5: Revelations has been up in duplicate. I accidentally replaced the content of Chapter 4 with it. For that, I'd like to apologise. Didn't mean to cause confusion^^. The revised version of Chapter six should be up in a few days._

_Sachita (=  
_

* * *

**21. Deceptively Clear Waters**

*****  
**

He woke up at sunrise to find himself entangled in Isolde's arms. She was lying on his chest, her head buried in his shoulder and her arms thrown around his waist.

For a while, he just watched her eyelids fluttering and her chest rising. Whenever she took a breath, a strand of softly-curled black hair fell into her eyes. After some seconds, she reached up in her sleep and swat it away, only to have it fall back again.

He couldn't help but feel how a slight smile curled his lips.

Carefully, he tucked the belligerent strand of hair behind her ear and moved her off him, taking care not to wake her up.

Then he stood beside the bed, gazing at her sleeping form, something akin to wonder in his dark eyes. He had rarely seen a woman sleep, and to see her lie there, that beautiful creature, who had given herself completely to him made him feel completely intoxicated and tense at the same time.

His recollection of last night's events wasn't as accurate as he would have liked it to be, but neither had he forgotten how she had been there for him.

Tristan was an independent, untamed soul and he liked to keep it that way…but…and again he looked at her, holding his breath so she wouldn't wake up.

She had somehow come into his life, found a way into a heart, that he had thought to be long-dead and…he trusted her. With his life.

He was not a man who gave his trust easily but Isolde had proven herself worthy of it.

Worthy of even more, he thought, more than that. She held his heart.

And in his quick, short way, Tristan nodded once, satisfied, that he had finally managed to sum it up. Summing things up was something, that the Romans had taught him. Latin was a hard language, not useful for songs or poetic words. His own language was so different. When he thought of his mother's tales, he remembered, that they would always start with a long foreword. Absentmindedly, he stared at Isolde, not really seeing her, but recalling how his mother's eyes had sparkled as she had started to talk in their language, a language, in which words rather rolled off the tongue, like a song would.

"My children," she had said while they had listened intently.

"In the land of our rolling hills, in the green meadows of our forefathers and their forefathers and so on, in the land of the nimble-footed gazelles and the roaring hooves of the proud stallions, in the land of the wind and the sky…"

Her prologue would sometimes take longer than the story itself, but Tristan loved listening to his mother speaking in their wave-like tongue that was sparkling the sea spray and soaring like an eagle at times. No Latin words had ever managed to move his soul like that.

Abruptly he was snapped out of his thoughts by Isolde turning to roll on her stomach.

An odd, almost tender expression flitted over his face as he regarded the woman, that he had given his heart to, as he now knew.

The mask firmly back in place, he nodded once and exited the room.

***

Dagonet was washing his face with water from a clay basin. He looked up, when a long shadow fell over his face, darkening the sun.

"Tristan," he greeted warmly. The scout acknowledged him with a small tilt of his head, then stood at his side to wash himself as well.

Dagonet watched how he scooped up a handful of water, seeing the morning sun caught up in the water drops.

Tristan had felt his scrutiny for he looked up and gazed at Dagonet expectantly.

"You look well this morning after so many drinks yesterday."

Dagonet hadn't really meant to say that, even if Tristan _did_ look well for an evening of such over-indulgence. However, that was no surprise. Tristan always did.

The scout didn't react, instead he still waited patiently, knowing that Dagonet wasn't finished.

_He has always known me too well, knows that I wouldn't make such empty comments,_ Dagonet thought fleetingly, searching for a way how to phrase his thoughts.

"You were with her last night," he finally said calmly.

Tristan didn't even bother to deny it. "I was," he replied evenly, tilting his head in the way, that had always reminded Dagonet of his hawk, the scout's feral companion.

"So you also know that she's promised and I do not need to remind you of the consequences."

Dagonet tried desperately to knock some sense in that stubborn scout's head.

"I do." Tristan looked up this time and a small, amused smirk curled his lips, as if he knew of Dagonet's intentions.

"So there is no way to change your mind, is there?"

Tristan eyed him seriously. "No. There isn't. But I appreciate your concern, brother."  
With that he clasped Dagonet's shoulder briefly and walked away, going out to scout, undoubtedly.

Dagonet stayed where he was and his gaze was caught by the reflection of the clouds in the water. He looked up at the sky and frowned at the quickly approaching dark clouds of a storm, his expression grave.

Tristan was playing a dangerous game and Dagonet couldn't do anything but hope that he realised it.

* * *

Isolde woke up hours later from a sun ray of pure brilliance on her nose. She sneezed and opened her eyes, slowly getting up.

She finished her morning routine and slipped in a dress, walking out in the cold morning.

When she arrived outside, she stopped and looked around awestruck.

The morning air was cool and it was such clear weather, that the faces of the people walking by were illuminated in the sunlight. Isolde saw how they basked their faces in it, how it washed away years of grime and hardship. She smiled a little, then walked up to the wall top, gazing upon the land, that seemingly stretched on for forever in the golden sunshine of early summer. Quietly, she wondered, where Tristan now was- somewhere in the forests of that golden country…

"It is a beautiful land," a male voice next to her said calmly.

She spun around. "Arthur," she exclaimed. "My apologies, I didn't see you."

He smiled. "No worries, my Lady. I just came up here myself."

She nodded, suddenly uncomfortable and turned back to gaze at the sun-lit scenery.

"When will Herman be buried?" she asked quietly.

"Tomorrow," Arthur said heavily.

"I am sorry for your loss." She turned around to face him. "Tis a heavy burden for anyone to bear."  
"It is." He rested his hands on the wall. "He was a good man and he will be sorely missed. I should have done something."  
Isolde's voice cut like a knife. "You couldn't have and the men know that."

Arthur didn't look at her, but nodded quietly. They were both silent for a while, watching the sun and the patrolling Roman soldiers.

Then Arthur spoke again. "If I may ask, my Lady-"

"Isolde," she corrected him.

He accepted it with a smile. "If I may ask, Isolde, why is it that you left Gaul?"

Isolde didn't reply at first. Then- because it was Arthur- she said:

"My father, the Chief of the Morini betrothed me to Lord Marcellus Aurelius."

" I know that." Arthur gave her a smile, that clearly said, that he could see through her act.

"But if I may be so bold to ask, did you approve of his choice? Please, speak freely with me. I won't hold it against you."

Isolde felt a little angered. Arthur was a fine man, but still a Roman.

"Well, what do you think my Lord, having a father who sells you to the enemy like a piece of livestock?"

Arthur looked immediately reserved and she regretted her outburst already.

Stiffly he said: "I beg your pardon, my Lady. I did not mean to aggravate you."

She took a deep breath. "No, Arthur. It's me who must beseech you for your forgiveness.I did not mean to speak so untoward."

He gave her an even look and she turned back to the sight.

Softly, she said:

"It's not you, Arthur, whom I hate. In fact I hold you in high regard. You have been nothing but good and friendly to me. You are a good man, an excellent leader and your men would give their lives for you. But understand that most of the Romans I have encountered so far have not possessed your kindness."

Arthur sighed. "I know that, Isolde. I have spoken about this to my men before, and their opinions are similar to yours. But Rome-" He broke off and turned away from her, putting a hand on the cool wall. "Rome has done so much good for the world, too. I do not understand how you all can't see that as well."

Isolde considered her words carefully. "Rome, Arthur has certainly brought improvements in the areas of medicine and warfare. Our ways of living might be regarded as primitive in comparison to theirs. But Rome, Arthur, Rome it is not what you think."

"And how not so, my Lady?" he asked, his voice severe.

She noted that he had called her "My Lady" again, but she refrained from offering him "Isolde" again. It wouldn't be fit for this situation.  
"My Lord," she started softly. "I might not have enjoyed such fine schooling as you have and the Gallic culture might be primitive in the eyes of an Empire as glorious as yours. But I can assure you, it is not. Our way of living, our world view…it is something that belongs uniquely to Gaul. And no foreign force should ever attempt to take that away from anyone."

"What is it then, my Lady?"

"Freedom," she said simply.

"A wise man told me once, that it has always fallen to a few too sacrifice for the good of many. And this," he indicated with a sweep of his arm, "This is what we sacrifice our freedom for."

"Who was it?" Isolde asked, not directly replying to his statement.

"Pelagius. A good man. A brave man. A man who believes in equality and freedom."

Isodle was silent for a minute. Then she mumbled: "He sounds like a good man to know."

"He is, "Arthur agreed, a proud gleam in his eyes. "He was like a surrogate father to me."

"You will see him again," Isolde said wisely. "But when you do, Arthur, and when you walk the halls and the streets of that magnificent place you dream of; when you reform Rome so that all of its people might believe in those principles you hold in so high regard, then-"

She paused and looked into his eyes. "Then think of me sometimes. An unlucky woman broken by the mill wheel of destiny."

He looked almost helpless and for a moment she regretted putting him in that position.

"Your future husband cannot be as bad as the rumours make him out to be," he mumbled.

"But he is, "Isolde said firmly. "But do not pity me. This is my burden to bear. Neither do I envy you yours."

Arthur only nodded, sadness in his eyes: "I consider you a friend, Isolde, that is why I shall do as you say. But believe me, when I tell you, that I will think of you."

Isolde smiled. "More I do not ask of you."

Arthur gazed at her silently. "You are a good person to talk to, Isolde. No Roman Lady would ever dare to speak up like that."

Iolde smiled widely. "I am not a Roman Lady. I am just a wild savage woman from Gaul."

She paused and looked at Arthur, who smiled easily at her joke.

" Now, come, I hear, Galahad has given Vanora a hand in the kitchens today."

"By Pollux," Arthur exclaimed in mock horror. "If Galahad is cooking, we should rather look for a good hiding place somewhere in Rome."

Isolde laughed. Arthur's jests were rare, but always funny. She had come to appreciate his dry humour in the weeks she had spent with the knights.

* * *

In the Woods, meanwhile, a storm was brewing. A storm, triggered by Crevan. The ancient Woad stood on the gigantic, entangled roots of a huge tree and looked down on the assembled Celtic warriors, envoys of almost all British tribes.

"Listen to me, now. Return to your leaders and tell them to ready their men. Tell them to come here, when two moons have passed. We will crush these Romans like leaves in our hands."

He opened his fist, shreds of formerly green, living leaves fell out. The envoys cheered.

"Go!" He ordered. They disappeared ghost-like in the green mass of the forest.

A hawk rose up from a tree branch near-by and soared into the air.

Crevan looked after it, then shook his head and walked away. A dark smile curled his lips.

* * *

Evening had fallen and there was still no sign of Tristan. Isolde knew, that his scouting trips could take hours but still, she felt unsettled without his silence presence near her.

Startled, she realised that she was addicted to him, no, she loved him with all her heart.

This revelation was not an unexpected one; but at the same time, she knew how foolish she had been to fall so deeply for him, when she had to marry another.

But at the same time…she wouldn't have done anything differently.

Her actions might gain her a broken heart; but at the same time she had gained Tristan…

"Isolde," Brana called suddenly from the shadows, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Oh!," she smiled. "I didn't see you coming."

"Use your eyes," Brana jested.

Isolde laughed half-heartedly.

Branwaine must have sensed her apprehensive mood, for she touched Isolde's arm softly and said: "Vanora would like us to help her in the tavern. There is a large crowd tonight."

Isolde nodded and followed her friend to the tavern.

***

Serving customers was quite uneventful the first hours.

Then, it happened. She was just pouring wine in the mugs of some Roman mercenaries, when one of them grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down in his lap.

She struggled and screamed, but her scream was abruptly cut off, when he clamped a hand across her mouth.

"Ah," he said, the slightest hint of an accent in his Latin, showing that he was no native speaker, but a part of the Roman auxiliary foot troops.

"I love them when they are that…feisty." He kissed the side of her face. Isolde felt like throwing up. She bit into his hand. Hard.

He yelled in fury and released her: "She bit me!"

Isolde wanted to run away, but another arm caught her from behind. Her heartrate sped up. She felt like a cornered deer.

It was another Roman mercenary. "Not so quick, my darling."

A blade was at his throat suddenly and he tensed.

"Release her," a firm, young voice said.

The Mercenary hesitated.

"Now!" the voice shouted.

***

The arm released her and her rescuer grabbed Isolde's arm , still holding the sword out in front of him.

When they were at a safe distance from the men, the unknown man released her.

Isolde turned around. "Augustus Stratus!" she exclaimed.

The young Roman nodded, his face turning a strange shade of red.

"It is me, my Lady."

"You saved me. Thank you." It was a plain statement and Augustus nodded shyly.

"You're welcome, my Lady."

Isolde felt weak out of the sudden. "I have to apologise to you," she said softly.

"You used me."

Isolde gazed at him through dark strands of hair in front of her eyes. "How do you know?" she asked faintly.

Augustus smiled bitterly and sat down on a stack of wood, beckoning her to sit down next to him.

She hesitated, then she sat down.

"I have known it for a while," he said slowly. "You used me, to get out of the fort for a while. What for, I don't know."

Desperate to explain, Isolde hastily said: "I only did that for the good of all of us."

Augustus shook his head. "I don't want to know, my Lady. It's not important. Even a man as young as I knows what it is like to be rejected. And so I knew that you were only using me, flattering me for your own purposes, but it doesn't matter. I admired you. I still do."

Isolde was speechless.

"You are," the Roman continued, "probably the first woman I have ever really fallen for. But I did not come here to tell you that."

"No?" Isolde wasn't sure how much more of that she could take.  
"No. I came here to say good-bye to you, actually. We are going to fight the Woads soon, I have heard the rumours. I know that I am probably going to die, but I am going to die with the eternal happiness of having known you. And I came here to wish you luck."

Isolde had never thought this could happen. She took a deep breath.

"I am so sorry-"

"No," the young man corrected and took her hand. "I have brought that upon myself for I have known that you love another."

Isolde was again surprised. "How did you-"

He laughed shortly.

"I could see it in your eyes. But again, it is alright."

He took her hand and pressed a kiss on it, then disappeared phantom-like in the night.

Isolde felt dazed, entirely robbed of her self-confidence. She got up as if under a spell and walked back to the tavern, sitting down next to Dagonet, who accepted her company with a slight smile.

***

She stared into nothingness and after a while, Dagonet gave her long, concerned looks, but seeing, that she wouldn't talk about it, he pushed a plate full of hot stew in her direction.

Isolde shot him a grateful look and ate in silence.

Shortly after, loud exclamations could be heard. "Tristan! Welcome back!"

It was Gawain, who sat at the foremost table of the tavern.

Isolde jumped up and wanted to run to him, never having needed him more, but a hand on her arm held her back. It was Dagonet.

"No," he said simply. "No one may know."

Shocked, Isolde sank back on her seat and stared at him.

_How could he have known?_

Dagonet answered to her terrified gaze with a reassuring smile and a hand on her arm.

"Do not worry, Isolde. I won't tell anyone."

"Not even Arthur?" she choked.

"No," he said firmly. "Not even Arthur. Tristan is one of us and you belong to him. We protect our own."

Isolde felt relieved and horrified at the same time. "Does that mean…everyone knows?"

Dagonet stifled another smile at her expression. "No."

She threw her head back in relief. This time he laughed out loud, a deep, pleasant sound rarely heard and pushed her out of her seat.

"Now come on. Go to him. Inconspicuously."

She hesitated. "Thank you, Dagonet," she said. "You are a true friend."

Mirth danced in his eyes. "I know. Now go."

She did as he had said, barely refraining from running, but there was a slight bounce in her step, reminding Dagonet of an enthusiastic fawn.

He shook his head, smiled, and turned back to his mead, even if there was also a slight gleam of envy in his eyes. What wouldn't he give to be able to love like her again, with all his heart...

_

* * *

tbc  
_

* * *


	22. Infinity

_Update! Thank you very much for your review, **Queen Amy**! I really would appreciate feedback for this one. I am quite unsure and I wasn't even sure if I should post it. In this chapter I tried to show how deeply they feel for each other. I really don't know if I managed it. If you all tell me that it is too OOC I will rewrite it. But...see for yourself. I hope you like it. - Sachita (=_

* * *

**22. Infinity**

*****  
**

„Arthur."

The Roman looked up from the sets of maps he was studying and nodded a silent greeting to his scout.

"Crevan will attack. In two months' time he wishes to assemble all British tribes who are willing to pay their respects to him."

Arthur's eyes widened. He sucked in a sharp breath. "You are sure?"  
Tristan inclined his head seriously. "I know it."

Arthur finally nodded, regaining his cool. "I have already sent messengers to the forts to warn them of the impending danger. Since the brunt of his attack will concentrate on us, they will send reinforcements."

"How many?"

Arthur calculated silently. "I expect them to send two or three Centuries, so it should be about 160 men. We have a Century here. So all in all, we should be about 500 men."

Tristan's dark eyes glimmered. "Crevan will send more."

Arthur sighed. "Yet we cannot increase our number. The other forts cannot be expected to spare more and a request to Rome would surely come too late."  
"Then we shall fight."

"Aye," Arthur agreed. "We shall fight. And we shall fight for all what we hold dear. We shall fight against Crevan as if there were two of every one of us. We shall fight against his dark magic with the promise of light!"

He had risen from his seat, his eyes glimmered with devotion. "We shall fight and we shall defeat them. For Rome."

Tristan corrected him quietly: "It is you who will fight for Rome. We will fight for you."

Arthur took a deep breath.

"Thank you," he said. Tristan inclined his head once again and disappeared shadow-like out of the door. Arthur stared after him. His expression was a strange mixture of pride and shame.

"If I only knew what I have done to deserve the unwavering loyalty of such fine men…" he mused silently, but only the unvarying silence answered.

* * *

When he arrived outside, Tristan paused to let his eyes adjust to the harsh sunlight.

He raised his gaze, seeing a solitary figure stand on the wall, dark hair playing in the wind.  
A slight smile passed over his face.

She looked up, when his shadow fell on her. "Tristan." Her greeting was joyful and again he wondered what he could have done to inspire such love in her.

"My Lady." He bowed.

She caught his hand in hers and he let her, both of them mindful of what would happen to the other if they were caught.

"Are you free today?" Her soft voice held the hint of an idea, the hint of childlike playfulness, that she had retained even after all that had and would still happen to her.

"I am always free for you, my Lady."

She smiled widely. "Flatterer."

He raised a silent eyebrow, as if to contradict her. She laughed. "Come."

He followed her without a word of protest. Many people eyed the pair askance, but Isolde was too filled with joyous sentiments to notice and Tristan just ignored them or shot them one of his icy glares, that made them look away quickly.

***

"He! Tristan!"

Tristan wanted to ignore Lancelot's irksome voice, but he knew that he couldn't do that: Rumours, that would undoubtedly spread, would inevitably only stain Isolde's reputation.

"Lancelot," he said evenly.

"Where are you two going?" His question sounded conversational, but his stance and the glint in the dark depths of his eyes told Tristan otherwise. Lancelot was suspicious.

Isolde wanted to answer, but Tristan silenced her with a calm hand gesture.

"The Lady wished to take a walk outside of the Wall. So-"

"-I asked Sir Tristan here to accompany me lest I will not be harmed by anyone."

Lancelot raised a dark eyebrow. "I see. " But the way he stressed his words showed them that he did nothing of that sort and his smile was insincere. "I can accompany her, too, Tristan. You do not have to trouble yourself. I am sure, that you still have plenty of chores to do."

Tristan, never having been one to be at a loss for words, quietly retorted, catching onto the game: "I am sure you do have chores, too, Lancelot. Lady Elaine asked me today for your whereabouts. She was quite distraught."

Lancelot shrugged , smiling, then he turned around, as if he wanted to depart. Isolde already breathed a sigh of relief, but then he abruptly spun around again, facing Tristan, his eyes glittering dangerously. "Is this your only reason?"

"I do not know what you speak of," Tristan answered dispassionately, as calm as ever.

Isolde concluded that he just knew Lancelot too well.

The silent scout now added indifferently:

"You know that the Lady Isolde is as safe with me as she would be with any of us."

Lancelot seemed to deflate suddenly. "Never mind." He gave a half-grin and relented.

"I sure know that she is safe with you. But I did not like to miss out on the chance of escorting a beautiful Lady myself."

Tristan stared at him impassively. Finally, Lancelot grew uncomfortable under the amber stare- as he always did- and backed away, throwing his hands up in a show of helpless exasperation.

"I will go and find Lady Elaine, now. Have a good time, you two." Again he looked closely at them to discover some sort of reaction to his words, but they were careful to maintain even expressions. Eventually he gave them a last nod and was gone.

Tristan allowed himself a little frown and Isolde stared at him, fear in her eyes and in her strained expression. "Do you think he knows?"

Tristan thought for a moment, then he shook his head, dark braids swaying gently.

"No."

"But he is suspicious," Isolde said, already slightly panicked.

"We have to be more careful."

With that and a terse nod he was already walking on. Isolde stared at his back in irritation, then she ran to catch up with him.

***

When they passed the gate, Isolde caught the gaze of one of the Wall guards.

To her dismay, she recognised Augustus Stratus. He didn't meet her eyes.

Tristan, however, had followed her gaze. When they were a good distance away from the Wall and out in the fields he stopped abruptly.

She had to look up to gaze at him, he was quite a bit taller than her.

The amber eyes were stormy, angry pits and unintentionally she recoiled in face of his dark anger.

"Will you now finally tell me what your business with that Roman is, woman?" he growled, his hot breath hitting Isolde's face.

Suddenly angry herself she came closer again. How dare he!

"No!" she hissed venomously.

He stared at her for a moment longer with such a hot, burning gaze that Isolde trembled, but she defiantly held her ground.

Abruptly he growled and stomped off in the other direction.

Incredulously, Isolde stared at his back. "What?" she yelled rage-filled. "You just go?"

She gathered up her skirts, running after him. "How dare you, you-"

She didn't get to finish her sentence, because she was busy stumbling over a molehill, tripping and finally falling to the wet ground- it was always wet in Britannia, even now in summer- summer already, again- could it really have been that long since she had bid Tristan good-bye in her home land?

The sudden impact wrenched her violently out of her thoughts and forced the air out of her lungs and for a moment she just lay there, staring dazedly up at the clouds and the blue sky, wondering what it would be like to be able to fly like a bird, up in the endless expanse of the sky, flying higher and higher, until she was just a little dot…What would it be like? To do or not to do what you liked? What would it be like to be free and independent of all duties? For a moment she was lost in infinity.

Braids appeared in front of her eyes. Dark eyes gazed in hers. She held her breath.

"Isolde? Are you alright?" His question sounded half-annoyed, half-concerned.

Words seemed to return to her. "I am fine, thank you." Her reply came out a bit snappier than she had intended, but she didn't regret it.

To her surprise, the anger on his face faded to make way for a strange expression. Was that…laughter? Isolde narrowed her eyes at him, as he disappeared out of her limited peripheral vision- she was still lying on her back staring up in the sky.

Slight chuckles came from her right and she gracefully sprung to her feet.

"Don't you dare to laugh at me," she threatened him, brushing the dirt off her dress.

"I would never do that," he said, obviously trying to look meek, but even the idea of him looking meek made Isolde laugh; it was just too absurd.

***

"It must be hard," she finally said, feeling how seriousness returned to her.

"What?" he asked, still with an amused glint in the eye.

"It must be hard," she told him softly, wrapping her arms around herself, turning away and facing the misty forest, that glared darkly at her over the space of some impossibly green fields. "What must be hard?" He asked, coming closer and enclosing her in the warm space of his arms.  
"To be forced to pretend. Always pretending, never being entirely truthful."

"What are you talking about?" he growled quietly.

"A mask," Isolde said, turning around and tracing the outline of his face with a cool, white finger. "You do not let them see anything. But that is alright," she added softly.

"As long as you permit _me_ to look under it."

He held her at arm's length. He struggled for words.

"You-" he said eventually hoarsely. " You are compassionate, sensitive. Your ways are sometimes as playful as that of a child, yet you are mature. You are impatient and sometimes stupidly reckless. And you are the most unusual soul I have ever come across."

He turned away. His words were soft, quiet, just a rush on the wind.  
"I love you. You know that. And I shall love you until the day I die. But I damn myself every day for it. A woman so kind as you does not deserve someone like _me_!" The last word was spat with contempt and he turned away, facing the wind that blew strongly from the east.

Isolde was quick at replying, how could she not be?

"How can you speak such words," she whispered, "when it is my heart you hold? Forever."  
He turned around to her, storms in his eyes. "And I shall be yours for eternity," she added, her voice a mere whisper now. "Even if we are long gone." He stared at her for a second longer, then he abruptly pulled her in his arms , amber eyes staring in the distance, telling everything that he could not put in words.

When she pulled away, he was smiling.

"It is good," she said softly, taking his hand, leading him deeper in the forest.

***

In a little clearing they stopped. Afternoon had passed to make way for the dark hues of night and the first stars started to sparkle.

Glowing diamonds of white, pinned to the firmament, fighting with the foggy spectres of grey that threatened to drown the dark forests of Britannia in their overwhelming mass.

The stars won that night, however, and Isolde tugged Tristan down to lie on the soft moss.

They fell rather undignified to the ground and this provoked a bout of breathless laughter from Isolde and low, deep chuckling from Tristan.

But eventually the quiet of the stars drowned out the sound of their laughter, and so it came that they finally were silent, staring up to the heavens.

"These stars," Isolde mused, "so bright, so far away. Ans when we will be gone, they will still be there, endlessly. Somehow that is a comforting thought."

She turned her head. "Do you believe that there is a life after this life?"

A pause. Then, in his quiet, short way:

"In Sarmatia there is a legend that fallen knights return as horses."

"Do you believe in it?" she asked softly, feeling for once, that she was here, really here: there next to Tristan's warm body, among the trees of a dark forest, lying on a mossy ground; her fingers could feel it, moist and thready. The feeling was such a real feeling, a good feeling, that she wanted to hold on to it. Then he finally answered.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly." It would be far too fantastic to be true. Who are we to want to return to life, when we have killed so many others and taken so many lives? We wouldn't deserve it."

He stated it calmly.

"I will follow you wherever you go," Isolde said evenly.

He laughed slightly, darkly amused. "Even if it meant that you had to spend your next life as a soil crumb?"

"Even then," she said earnestly. His laugh disappeared and suddenly his dark eyes were everywhere and his hands: his warm, strong hands.

Hands on her thighs, a warm body, hot breath on her face, touches everywhere, dark eyes dancing, sly smiles, quick kisses, tenderness, warmth.

And one name. _Tristan. Tristan. Tristan. Tristan…_

She wished that she could hold on to his moment forever.

* * *

_so...what do you think ? (=_


	23. The Calm Before The Storm

_Thanks a lot for your reviews, **Rhysel** and **Queen Amy!** I appreciate them, they are always a great encouragement for me to go on quickly._ _Next chapter will be about the battle and it should be up in a few days (I have holidays^^). I hope you like this one!_

_Disclaimer : King Arthur is owned by Jerry Bruckheimer. No copyright infringement intended.  
_

_-Sachita (=  
_

* * *

**23. The Calm Before The Storm  
**

*****  
**

Time passed quickly in the fort. Isolde spent her days with caring for the sick or helping Vanora with her young ones. But her nights belonged to Tristan and to him only.

He was her only thought in the morning when she woke up and her only thought in the night, when she went to bed. Her nights and her evenings were filled with passionate embraces, deep words greedy, hungry kisses and the ever-present fear that one of them would have to go.

On a weary evening, because Tristan had just returned from a long scouting trip and Isolde had been busy treating patients the whole day, they were lying next to each other on Tristan's narrow bed.

"I have something to give to you," Tristan said quietly.

Curiously, Isolde looked as he got up and withdrew something from a leather bag in the corner. He turned around to her and held it out to her on his palm.

Astonished, Isolde looked at it. It was a silver chain with an intricate pendant in the form of two silver, galloping horses, which were interwoven with each other.

"It's yours," Tristan told her.

She looked at him. "Really?" He nodded and his face brightened, when she accepted it with a smile. "Why?"

"It was my mother's," Tristan explained softly. "And now I'd like you to have it. Because you belong to me." It was said with so much conviction, that Isolde had almost been convinced, that everything would turn out to be alright.

"I belong to you," she breathed. "You are right. I am yours."

He smiled, a genuine smile and put the chain around her neck.

She slept that night with a smile on her face.

***

The next day started early. Tristan was already gone when she woke up.

While she went about her daily chores, Gilly suddenly came up to meet her as she was just washing the dirty laundry.

Gilly, one of Vanora's children, a young, brazen boy of about eight years, was one of the young ones, who had taken a great liking to her.

"Isolde," he whispered that day, tugging at her sleeve. She bent down to his level.

"Yes?"

"I've to tell ye somethin'," he whispered.

"Well, what is it?"

"Ye are the second most beautif'l woman on earth, you are," he said, an earnest smile on his grubby face. "But ye cannit be th' first one, 'cause that's Ma."

"Why, thank you," Isolde laughed.

"Isolde," Gilly said, sounding distressed. "I've 'nother thing t'ask ye."

"Yes?"

"Ye are gonna marry a Roman and go away? Is that really right?"

"Yes." Isolde turned her head away, so he wouldn't see her expression.

"Then I'm gonna miss ye," Gilly whispered in her ear. Then, with a wide smile and a wave he was gone. Isolde's eyes followed him until he disappeared behind a corner.

***

"The young ones love you, dearie," Vanora said suddenly from behind her.

"They are good children," Isolde said softly, smiling at Vanora. "Take after their mother."  
Vanora smiled. "Thankee, dearie. That's a nice thing to say."

"Oh, I mean it," Isolde said, turning her eyes back to the sun.

"Do you want them, too?" Vanora asked. "Children, I mean?"

"Yes," Isolde replied. "But who knows what will happen?"

This time her smile was definitely bitter.

"I will miss you, my friend," Vanora replied quietly.

A peaceful hush fell over them, while they basked their faces in the midday sun. The overwhelming, lethargic summer silence even dulled the enthusiastic shouts of playing children in the distance, the whinny of horses nearby and the unsettling clanging of steel on steel from the practice yards.

The peace was abruptly brought to an end as Vanora said: "You know that the men will be moving out at dawn, don't you?"

Isolde felt her heart starting to beat faster.

"Tomorrow morning?" she choked, staring incredulously at Vanora.

Her red-haired friend was oblivious to her horror.

"Tomorrow," she confirmed with a sigh, then she took in Isolde's pallor.

"Goodness gracious, child, you are as pale as death!"

"It's just-" Isolde murmured faintly, trying to keep her hands from shaking, "-that I am worried for them."

Not the whole truth, but all that she could tell Vanora.

"Ah," Vanora smiled, a knowing glint in the eye and it made Isolde almost sick to see it.

"Don't worry, Isolde, everything will turn out to be alright."  
Her face clouded momentarily. "Well, usually everything turns out to be alright," she amended, lost in her own thoughts.

"Thanks Vanora," Isolde said quickly and hastened away.

Even before rounding the corner Isolde had started to run.

Contemplatively Vanora stared after her, softly shaking her head.

Finally she retired inside, shutting the wooden door with a soft thud.

***

Meanwhile, Isolde was flying up the stairs and her heart beat loudly in her throat.

Jumbled thoughts crossed her mind, with shaking hands she opened the door to her chamber.

The bird? Where was the damned bird? The bird…

Hadn't she placed it in the fur nest, that she had specifically constructed for it this morrow?

She remembered what Tristan had said upon first seeing the bird. He had been lying next to her, half-propped up on his elbows, while she had been tenderly tracing the criss-cross marks of fading red scars on his muscled arms.

Meanwhile he had been gazing at her with those deep amber eyes, giving her one of his inscrutable, searching looks. She had never been able to stand those and so she had laughed uncomfortably, turning her head away. An amused, wry smirk had appeared on his face.

His eyes had drifted over to the fur nest and the little blue bird in it. His gaze had snapped back to her and the look he had given her had been undeniably questioning.

"I found it in the Woods," Isolde had explained softly, ashamed at having to lie to him out of all people.

He had just nodded, but ever so often his dark, fiery gaze had strayed over to the bird and Isolde had had the uncanny, discomforting feeling, that he had known about her lie.

A little squawk made her spin around in relief.

"Good bird," she cooed softly, putting the Woad bird on her palm.

Anarya, as it was called, twittered softly and nipped at her fingers.

She put it on the bed and scribbled a quick note to Merlin on a piece of parchment, tying it to the bird's leg with nimble fingers.

Grabbing a little basket, she made sure that Anarya was hidden from view in it, then she broke into a run. Many people stared at her in disapproval as it wasn't appropriate for a woman to run, but she couldn't have cared any less.

Standing on the walltop, finally, she opened the basket and released the bird. Hovering in front of her, Anarya stared at her with too much awareness and intelligence in its eyes for a mere animal. Isolde had always found that quite unsettling, but had chosen not to give too much thought on it, attributing it to one of Merlin's otherworldly powers.

"_Donoî_! Fly!" she told the bird urgently. It twittered softly, then took off for the forest. Isolde breathed a sigh of relief, when she couldn't see the blue spot anymore. This was her contribution to the upcoming battle and she could only hope that it would be enough.

* * *

A beautiful, but deadly dangerous hawk swooped down on a fluttering, unusually blue bird. Such a colour was rarely found on the misty island of Britannia.

The bird struggled and fought desperately to free itself from the sharp talons of the larger bird, but to no avail. Eventually, the hawk landed on the armoured arm of a solitary rider, who almost blended in with the dark countryside. Its talons released its burden only when the rider opened his hand. Deftly, the rider caught the struggling bird in his hand, taking care not to hurt it. "A fierce one, aren't you?" he said in his deep accentuated voice.

Nimbly he untied the piece of parchment from the bird's leg. When he had read it, he frowned. "Trust," he mumbled, almost as if an invisible interlocutor was present.

"Trust," he repeated quietly, then he nodded and tied the parchment back to the bird's leg and opened his fist. The bird shot out into the cerulean sky like an arrow.

The rider looked after it, then spurred his horse into a harsh canter.

* * *

Arthur nodded to his scout, as he entered the room and took his place at the Round Table.

"Tristan. What kind of news do you bring?" Lancelot asked him in Arthur's stead. His voice was tinged with a hint of anger and Arthur looked at him inconspicuously, wondering what feud these two had going on.

Tristan didn't react to the faint hostility directed at him. He placidly took a long sip from his ale mug, then he addressed his commander:

"They have assembled at the edge of the forest. There are several hundred of them. Maybe a thousand."

Bedivere choked on his drink. "Maybe a thousand?!"

"Yes," Tristan answered calmly, then turned his attention back to Arthur .

"They have archers and a few horsemen, but their main force is equipped with axes or lances, as far as I could see."

"So what is our plan?" Bors asked loudly after a few minutes' silence.

Arthur nodded calmly, he had been expecting this question.

"We will hold the wall with our archers. Maybe some infantry to back them up.

We and the main force will ride to the Gate of the Red Tower, which is, as you all know, some miles away. We will pass it in the earliest hours of dawn. Then we will attack them from behind."

"A sound plan," Gawain mumbled pensively, stroking his golden beard.

"Arthur," Tristan said suddenly, drawing all attention to himself. It was rare to hear him speak up after he had delivered his report. Usually he kept quiet, unless there was a major flaw in the plan.

"We need to be aware of Crevan's powers, too."

"Bah!" Iwain said before Arthur could make a sound. "Superstitious nonsense."  
Tristan fixed an icy, cold glare on him. Iwain didn't look away and the tension in the room was almost palpable. Warning amber eyes met derisive blue ones with the full force of Tristan's anger and so, after a while, Iwain looked away with a snarl.

The other knights smirked inwardly. Iwain was not popular among them even though they respected him as a fellow knight. There was just something about his callous, brutal ways and his ruthless violence that made them avoid him.

* * *

"Well, Tristan should take to his persona well enough," Galahad had once remarked, some years after their arrival in Britannia.

That had earned him a sharp rebuke from Gawain and disapproving head shakes from most of the others. And as it turned out, they had been right. In fact, Tristan and Iwain avoided each other as well as they could.

"He's too ruthless, too lost in his own mad anger to be redeemed," Tristan had said once to Dagonet, referring to Iwain. But that had been the only time he had spoken of him and Dagonet had not asked again, not even to learn what Tristan knew about Iwain that they didn't.

* * *

"What do you know of Crevan's powers, Tristan?" Arthur asked neutrally, ever the peaceful one.

"Not much," Tristan admitted. "He can charm the people into obeying him. Some say, he can control the earth powers, at least to some extent. Some claim he can exercise control over the _Léleks_."

All of them visibly shuddered, except Iwain and Arthur. Upon seeing Arthur's confused look, Lancelot sighed and said:  
"The _Léleks_ are- how to phrase this?- ghosts that live in the wind."

"Their thoughts are sinister and their intentions vengeful, as it are the spirits of slain warriors," Dagonet added.

"To be short: They like to harm anyone who breathes," Igraine concluded mournfully and again all of them shuddered, save the aforementioned two.

"Maybe we should tell Arthur about the legend first," Tristan suggested. They exchanged looks, then Dagonet spoke up, as he was the oldest of them and it was customary for the oldest to permit others to pass on explicit legends to someone who was not a Sarmatian.

A tradition that they still kept up, when they were all assembled.

Dagonet said: "I agree. Tristan, do you want to tell it yourself?"

Tristan shrugged, then nodded, turning to Arthur, who had watched the whole procedure with held breath, knowing that they had to trust him deeply to entrust him with the myths of their people, even though they all acted as if it was of no great importance.

Tristan sat up a little straighter and even pushed his belligerent hair out of his face. Arthur could almost envision him crouching at a campfire in a faraway land, telling his story.

"When the earth and the sun were still young, all tribes lived in peace. Tabiti, the goddess of the sun smiled and shone and showed her approval of the peaceful tribes."

Tristan paused, all of them hung onto every word. His sentences were short, his choice of words simple, but that added only to the magic of the story and its teller.

"Now it came, that there was a man living upon the wide plains of Sarmatia. His name was _Vaksag_, which means blindness. He could see with his eyes, but he could not see with his mind and his heart."

Another pause. Tristan cleared his throat and continued gravely:  
"_Agin_, as he was called, the deity of war and violence, came upon _Vaksag_ once. The other gods detested _Agin_ for his ways. _Agin_, however, had a plan. And so he saw _Vaksag_ and knew that he was perfect for his plan. He blinded the young man with tales of riches and women and so it came, that _Vaksag_ slew the king of an adjacent tribe, because of his gold.

Thus, everything developed how Agin wished. The tribes started an embittered feud. And violence was brought in the world."

By that point, no one was really sitting at the table. In their minds, they were all in a different land, seeing it all playing out in their heads, as they sat there with half-closed eyes.

"The god of the sky and the clouds, _Papaios_ and his wife, the goddess of the water, _Api_, saw this outbreak of violence and bloodshed with great dismay. It was not in their powers to banish _Agin_, as violence had been brought into the world and could not be resolved anymore, but they forced those, who had been the most violent, into spirit forms. Vaksag was the first. They cursed those warriors to an eternal existence, not dead, but not alive either. Vengeful sprites who lashed out in their anger at anyone who dared to cross them. For centuries no one heard of them. But now Crevan woke them up."

Tristan cleared his throat when he was finished. That startled them, and they moved as if they came out of a dream.

***

Arthur finally said quietly: "And you think Crevan can use these…spirits to his advantage?"

It was a valiant attempt to believe in their legends and they could respect that.

Dagonet replied quietly: "Yes."

And that was when Iwain rose from his seat with a snort and wanted to depart.

With a steel glare, Arthur said: "Iwain, sit down."

Glaring, the dark man did as he had said.

"So what can we do?" Arthur asked.

"Nothing," Gawain spoke up. "The power of the ghosts cannot be defeated with human weapons."

"Merlin." Tristan presented the solution with a cool look.

"He is the only one who can defeat Crevan."

"Why should he do that?" Galahad demanded incredulously. "Fight his own people?"

"Crevan," Tristan replied, unusually talkative, "is a threat to his power. So it is in Merlin's interest to eliminate that threat."

Tristan did not mention the piece of parchment to them. Not yet. They would see soon enough.

"So why did you say we should be aware of Crevan's powers if we can't do anything against him?" Gawain asked neutrally, looking at Tristan who looked back at him imperturbably.

"No one of us should attempt to fight him in a show of mindless bravery," Tristan replied evenly in his thick accent. "That is why I said so."

With a nod to them he rose from his seat, taking his mug with him. No one made a move to hold him back as he soundlessly slipped through the door.

"So men," Arthur broke the silence. "Go now and prepare yourselves and then rest. Tomorrow shall be a long day and we shall emerge victorious. To Tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow!" the knights echoed and drank the rest of their ale at once. Then, one by one, they exited the room.

* * *

Isolde was sorting through some herbs in the flickering light of a candle, when the door was opened. She looked up, joy in her eyes, when she recognised the visitor.

"Tristan!" She got up and moved towards him.

He stood as still as a statue, but he allowed her to kiss him. Then, however, he pushed her away.

"Do you have anything to tell me?" he asked, out of the sudden.  
"I-" Isolde stammered, caught in the unforgiving heat of one of his stares.

"I- No," she said, feigning ignorance. He couldn't know of what she had done. He would never want to have anything to do with her again and she knew that she couldn't bear that.

"No, I don't have anything to tell you."

"Are you sure?" His amber eyes were sharp.

She nodded mutely and watched in a daze, as he exited the room. Then and only then, she comprehended what she had done. He had known and she had lied.

"Tristan!" A broken, quiet shout. He could not have possibly have heard her. Her knees suddenly gave in and she sank to the floor, shaking.

What on earth had she done?

* * *

_tbc_

_so...what do you think?  
_


	24. The Storm

_Hi everyone! Thanks a lot for the feedback,_ _ **ILuvOdie**! _

_ I am so glad to see that everything is working again. It drove me almost crazy (=... but here is another update for you. I have been busy writing on those last days, so you can count on the next chapter to come tomorrow or the day after that. I hope you like this one and I'd love to hear what you think about it. _

_-Sachita^^_

* * *

**24. The Storm**

*****  
**

The early morning found Isolde standing wearily in front of the stables, next to Branwaine and Vanora.

There was a flurry of activity going on. With red, tired eyes Isolde watched the first Century leave. Her eyes caught those of Augustus Stratus. He smiled wanly and held a hand up. Isolde waved and with a dark feeling of foreboding she watched him leave.

She knew in that moment, that she would never see him again and that realisation made her almost sick to the stomach.

The sound of many men mounting their horses made her turn back to the stables. Isolde was pale and dark smudges under her eyes spoke of a long night, which it had indeed been. The knights seemed to be finished with their preparations now, thus Vanora and Isolde waited for them at the stable entrance. Branwaine, however, hastened away to the Roman centuries preparing to ride out as well, no doubt looking for Flavius.

Isolde smiled faintly upon remembering the wedding of her friend. Yes, indeed , her friend Branwaine was now officially a Roman's wife, something that they wouldn't have thought possible a mere year ago. Isolde recalled with quiet fondness how Branwaine had smiled, glowing with an ethereal happiness. This, of course, made her thoughts stray to Tristan again. Self-loathing overwhelmed her like a tidal wave, as it had most of the previous night. She had come here hopeful, that maybe, just maybe, he would give her a sign of forgiveness, show her, that he still loved her. She had come to doubt everything in that night and she had not counted the hours, that she had lain awake, crying.

She wondered if he knew what power he had over her and if he did, why did he put her in such pain? She was so addicted to him, so dependent on him, that it was impossible for her to imagine a life without him.

She was snapped out of her reverie by a nudge in the ribs from Vanora.

"Pay attention," her friend said. "They are coming."

Arthur came first, clad in his Roman battle armour. Isolde looked up to him:

"Please, stay safe," she said softly. He gave her a wan smile: "I will try my best."

She returned the wan smile and watched as he rode past her. Knight after knight followed.

Lancelot, who gave her a flirtatious smile, Kay, who almost fell off his horse, Gawain, Dagonet, Gareth, Percival, Melan….And then finally, as the last one to ride out, he came.

"Tristan," she whispered. He looked down at her from his white steed with an unreadable expression. _I love you, _she mouthed at him. He showed no sign that he had even heard her. Instead he rode past her, and Isolde could only stare at the dust, that had been blown up, blind from tears. Vanora put her arms around her, but Isolde shrugged her off and broke into a run.

She didn't stop until she had reached the cemetry, a place where she would at least be undisturbed. Here she allowed her tears to flow freely. Shaking, she sank down next to a grave. Dinadan's grave, she noted detached. "Why?" she whispered brokenly.

But there was no reply. Only the wind's soft tune in the leaves.

* * *

The spears and swords glittered menacingly in the morning sun as they rode to the battle.

There were no clouds in the sky. It was getting to be a beautiful day. Tristan rode next to Arthur. Their Commander looked troubled. They had split from the main force of the Roman infantry shortly ago, in the moment when they had reached the backside of the Woad Army, because it would be them who attacked the Woad force from the opposite side, while the infantry would take them on from here.

"How far still?" Galahad called from behind.

"Oh come on, Galahad," Gawain answered, sounding annoyed. "You're behaving like a child."

"Am not."

"Oh yes, you are."  
"Quiet!" Arthur demanded harshly, his patience brought to a limit.

The two instantly quietened. Not long after they reached the outskirts of the Woods.

"There they are," Arthur quietly announced. For a moment, they stared at the mass of Woads gathered there, like a snake coiled to attack.

Then Arthur gave them a nod and they spurred their horses into canter.

"RUUUS!" Bors bellowed. The others gave a wild yell. Tristan notched two arrows and let them fly.

They rode in the first rows of the surprised Woads without second thought. Tristan used his long, curved blade to slash at the Woads from horseback.

They stood no chance against their brutal force.

Pausing for a second, Tristan looked to the East. The sun rose up in a red halo. A bloody morning. He smiled grimly, more a grimace than a smile.

The scent of blood hung in the air already. The men's sweat combined with this odour made for a sickly sweet combination, a stench that was well-known to Tristan after so many years spent on the battlefield.

Slowly, he dismounted, bringing the scimitar around in a deadly circle.

Many Woads fell from his sword, mortally wounded at their stomach.

A sharp gleam caught Tristan's eye and he cursed himself for not having noticed the lethal bowman in the tree to their left sooner.

But too late! The soft hiss of an arrow made Tristan's eyes widen in alarm, as he saw the intended target with the practiced eye of a skilled archer.

"Gareth!" he shouted in alarm, desperately slashing through the rows of Woads, even though he knew it was too late. Gawain had heard his call, he looked up in horror, just in time to see an arrow protruding from his brother's chest. Gareth slowly fell back, a look of wonder etched on his young features.

"NOOO!" Gawain screamed in despair. Tristan looked up sharply when he heard the shout, and saw Gawain, who left a bloody carnage behind to get to his fallen brother.

It was too late. With a heavy heart and the taste of bile on his tongue, Tristan turned away.

***

He turned around just in time to block a swipe directed to his chest. This Woad was not as unskilled as the rest of his comrades, when it came to open combat. The Woads were usually better at hiding in the trees, attacking in dense forests…anything that involved putting their ability to blend in with their surroundings like ghosts to good use.

The Woad, who had attacked him, was a staunch, sturdy man in maybe his early thirties. Older than Tristan, certainly, but not by too much. A dark beard covered most of his face, again, something unusual for Woads, as it were usually only the village elders, who grew a beard. Tristan frowned again, while blocking the man's sword. He detected the faintest hint of a foreign tattoo through all the blue paint. This man was no Woad.

His momentary distraction was a mistake. Sooner than Tristan could react, the man had a dagger ready and with the precision of a snake, he launched himself at the scout.

The dagger grazed his arm, not deep enough to do any real damage, but deep enough to leave a long, shallow cut, that was bleeding profusely.

Tristan stared at his arm in anger, then looked back at his foe, who grinned in triumph.

With a snarl and swift movements, he advanced and engaged his enemy in a new fierce, quick fight.

The man was good, but he favoured his right side. Tristan used that to his advantage and thus, he attacked out of the sudden the warrior's left side. His plan worked. The man's sword fell to the moist ground almost soundlessly.  
"Who are you?" Tristan demanded, holding his sword to the man's throat.

"Answer me!" he hissed, pressing the blade closer. The man didn't answer. Instead an odd look of defiance came over his face. "You will all die," he hissed. Then, with a quick motion, he plunged a hidden dagger directly in his own heart.

Tristan, who was rarely ever fazed by anything, stepped back and stared at the dying man in surprise and disbelief. This made no sense. Who had this man been and why had he rather killed himself than saying anything about his identity?

Tristan was still frowning, when he turned back to the fight. What he saw wasn't at all to his liking. The knights were outnumbered and the Roman infantry, that he could see advancing from the East was too slow. Too many Romans fell.

They would die here. They had no chance of defeating the Woad Army.

It was not death he feared. But he wished…he wished to see her again. Only once more.

With this somber realisation, Tristan turned around, just in time to see Melan fall from his horse, a dagger in his chest.

A wild, hoarse yell escaped his lips and with new-found determination, he attacked the blue-painted ghosts once again.

* * *

Merlin watched the fight from the forest. He saw the dark scout attacking his brothers with all his might. A frown twisted his lips. Crevan would win if he didn't interfere soon. His powers were too great, his men too many for the Romans to take.

He whistled once, a sharp, high sound.

Silently, rows of archers appeared between the trees.

Merlin closed his eyes as he gave the sign. When he heard the sound of the arrows whizzing through the air, he opened them again, unspeakable grief on his weathered face.

A fight- brothers against brothers…they would be staining this land with their own blood today. Crevan was responsible for that.

With a single nod of determination, Merlin departed at inhuman speed to fight the man, who held the greatest guilt. Crevan, the fox.

* * *

Isolde was staring at the herbs, the linen bandages and the ointments, that she had neatly organised on a table in her corner of the healing wards. The wards were silent, white, pure silence, only occasionally there was the sound of hushed, hasty voices and running feet. Surely the other healers, who were preparing to take in the wounded. She didn't care.

"They are going to need your help, Isolde," Vanora had told her urgently.

"Go no!" She had nudged Isolde gently.

Isolde had hesitated. "Go," Vanora had said in faint exasperation. "I promise to send him to you, when he arrives."

So, she was standing here, staring at her healing supplies, but not really seeing them. Her heart beat loudly in her throat. Thump, thump, thump. She was hanging onto a thin thread of endurance. What would she do if he died? Thump. Thump. Thump.

Each minute, that passed, was like a lifetime. Cold sweat started to break out on her forehead.  
Tristan. Thump. Thump. Thump. Arthur. Dagonet, Percival , Gawain, Bors, Lancelot, Gaheris, Gareth, Geraint, Bedivere, Melan, Erec, Galahad, Kay and yes, even Iwain.

Tristan. The list started again, names whirling around in her head. Augustus Stratus.

Tristan. Tristan. She uttered a slight gasp and slid to the ground, as if she had been punched in the stomach. Gods. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Her breath sped up. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Gods.

And then, through the constant murmuring in her ears and the sound of her beating heart, Vanora's voice came, loud, urgent.

"Isolde! They are here!" A door opening. Someone kneeling in front of her.

"Isolde!" Vanora stared at her, shook her shoulders. "Snap out of it!" she yelled.

"Isolde, now is not the time for panic! Come on, lass! They are hurt!"

That last word brought her finally out of her daze. Isolde straightened up and stared in Vanora's strained, pale face. "Who is hurt?" she managed to get out.

"I don't know yet," Vanora yelled back, irritated.

She noticed Isolde's expression and smiled apologetically, wanly. "I am sorry, dear. Come on."

***

Light feet running. Isolde hastened after Vanora. The white silence was not pure anymore. It was tainted with grey spheres of foreboding.

Snapshots of men with grisly wounds. Foreign, tanned faces. Crimson cloaks, hiding the crimson, that seeped out of their dead owners.

Stumbling men with mad eyes. More running.

There, finally, as if she awoke from a dream, there they were.

"Arthur!" she called, relief tinting her voice. "Arthur!"

He turned around to her, dried crimson streaks on his face.

"We won," he told her heavily. "We had unexpected… help." His expression was one of confusion momentarily, then it became again grave, heavy.

She gasped and put a hand in front of her mouth.

"Who?" she queried quietly.

"Melan," Arthur said heavily. "And Gareth."

Tears shot to Isolde's eyes. Gareth, the sweet-faced younger brother of Gawain and Melan, whom she had never known as well as she would have liked to. She looked to Gawain and Gaheris. Their faces were made out of stone.

"Erec took a crossbow to the thigh," Arthur relayed heavily. "Kay received a knock over the head, and the others have their collection of scrapes and injuries as well."

"What about you?" Isolde whispered.

"I am fine," he said and a look of self-loathing briefly crossed his features before he turned away. Isolde's eyes strayed over the knights. She stifled a half-sob, when she saw _him_ sitting stoically on Byaczt, holding his right arm to his chest.

"Vanora," she called. The red-haired woman looked over to her from her place next to Bors, who had dismounted, looking grim.

"Will you take Kay to Gerontius, the Roman healer?" she asked.

"I will tend to Erec meanwhile." Vanora gave a little nod and so she motioned Geraint, who was helping Erec to limp along, to follow her.

She shot one last, pleading look to Tristan, who looked back at her impassively.

Suppressing new, violent tears she walked quickly ahead of Geraint and Erec.

***

Upon arriving in the wards, she told Geraint to help Erec lie down on the bed.

"This is going to hurt," she warned the injured knight softly and locked her green eyes on his grey ones.

"Doesn't matter," Erec gasped out, his lips forming something between a smirk and a grimace. "Just do it."

Isolde worked efficiently and quickly, all the while trying to ignore the agony in Erec's screams. "There," she finally mumbled. Erec smiled up at her. His eyes slowly closed.

"You know," he mumbled, drowsy from the medication and exhaustion, "you remind me so much of her." Isolde remembered that he had told her once, that his betrothed had died in a Saxon raid. "What was she like?" she asked softly.

"Beautiful…" Erec mumbled, sleep already claiming him. "I think you would have…liked her." With that he finally gave in and fell asleep. Isolde rose quietly.

When she turned around, she gasped, completely startled. Geraint was gone. Instead there was-

"Tristan," she gasped sharply. He inclined his head. Afraid, that he would disappear again, she took his arm, ignoring his short hiss of pain.

"Sit down," she told him. He actually obeyed and sat down on a chair in a corner.

She cleaned his wound gently, her fingers lingering longer than necessary on his skin. They didn't talk, there was only the sound of quiet breathing.

Whilst she was bandaging his arm, he said matter-of-factly:

"Arthur has sent me to tell you, that you will be brought to your fiancé in one week. Then we shall depart from here and escort you to him."

Isolde's fingers shook, as she tied the bandage up. With a tight, strained voice, she asked:

"And you don't care?"

He had gotten up. There was nothing in his face, and even she could not read anything.

With a shaking voice she choked: "Get out."

She turned away from him, listening tensely to the sound of his quiet footsteps. When the door finally shut with a soft thud, only then, then did she turn around.

He was gone. He didn't care. And she would be sold in only a week.

With trembling fingers she reached up to cover her face, but it did little to subside the harsh sobs that rose up in her and filled the dreadful, white silence with terrible sound.

* * *

_tbc...So, do you like it? (=_

* * *


	25. Aftermath

_Thank you very much for your review, **ILuvOdie**!  
_

_Disclaimer : King Arthur is owned by Jerry Bruckheimer. No copyright infringement intended._

_So, now I hope that you like this chapter, and please, if you do, review! It would make my day._

_Sachita_

_P.S.: The next chapter should be up in some days.  
_

* * *

**25. Aftermath**

*****  
**

The soft screeches of seagulls made her look to the grey, cloud-covered sky. They had finally arrived on the coast path, that Arthur had been talking about. A week had passed too soon with no word spoken between her and Tristan. And so there she was, on the way to her future husband.

"Stop!" Arthur's voice could hardly be heard over the roaring winds, here, on the cliffs, but they stopped anyway. Isolde's carriage stopped, too. She was glad for the break because it prevented her from staring at the dirty, wooden ground of the carriage any longer than she had to.

"Isolde," someone called as she pushed the curtain aside and made a move to get out.

Percival offered her his arm. "For the Lady," he said with a smirk.

"Thank you," Isolde said wearily, not responding to his teasing.

He helped her down and she frowned, taking in her surroundings. A stray strand of hair was blown into her eyes and she brushed it away.

***

They had stopped next to the cliffs. Isolde walked to the clifftop alone. It was a bitter notion, that gripped her in that moment. Alone. She was walking alone. Was this how her life was going to be? Always among people, yet always alone?  
She stood at the edge of the cliff, while the wind blew her hair in her face. Pensively, she stared down in the swirling water, already mesmerized by it.

It was a grey sea, made complete with stormy clouds. Foam gathered at the rocks preceding the cliffs. Whenever a wave rolled over them, they were nearly entirely submerged in the sea.

Isolde wondered what it would feel like to be such a rock. Constantly drawn into the wet embrace of a harsh lover, almost drowned in his salty compassion…

What would it feel like if she jumped? Would her body be smashed into a thousand pieces?

Or would she simply lie down there, on a rock, while her life blood seeped out of her, helplessly staring at the sky and the circling sea gulls?

A strong arm suddenly caught her from behind.

"Careful, Isolde." Dagonet.

Isolde was glad for his presence. She was ashamed for the thoughts that she had been entertaining mere seconds ago.

"You didn't want to jump, did you?" Dagonet asked, sounding worried. Isolde realised that the answer to this question should be a negative one, but somehow she couldn't find the words to deny his query.

"I-" she said, hating how tears pricked her eyes and despising how small her voice sounded.

"No," she finally said. "At least I don't think so."

The last part was but a whisper, yet Dagonet had caught it.

He then surprised Isolde by drawing her in a tight hug, a gesture of affection rarely seen on any of the knights. Isolde breathed in the scent of leather and sweat.

He finally held her at arm's length.

"Why?" he asked quietly. "We are here too, you know."

"I know," Isolde said tiredly. "And you have been good to me. You, Dag, like the brother I never had, Percival like a cousin and the others all like family members. But don't you understand?" She trembled in his hold and tried her best to fight the tears. Again.

"I am to be sold to that Roman. He will do with me whatever he wants to. My father doesn't care for me. You, all of you-" she let out a short, bitter breath, "- you I am never going to see again. So, pray, tell me, Dagonet, what is there to live for?"

Dagonet softly shook his head. "I don't believe you. What happened to the vibrant, energetic Isolde who arrived here long ago?"

"She got lost somewhere on the way." Realising how dramatic she sounded, Isolde added wearily: "It doesn't matter."

She wanted to turn away, but Dagonet caught her again. There was no escape from his steel grip, so Isolde relented quickly.

"What about Tristan?"he said in an urgent, quick whisper.

Isolde risked a fleeting look around. Tristan was gone- presumably to scout ahead. The others were far out of earshot.

"I did something horrible," she murmured brokenly. "He will never look at me again."

"It can't have been that horrible," Dagonet replied, shaking her shoulders, as if he wanted to physically knock some sense in her. "He loves you. I am sure of it."  
"You don't understand," Isolde told him bitterly. Then she freed herself from his hold and he let her, watching her retreat to the carriage with sad eyes.

***

The night was cold, but clear. Isolde stared through the opening between the curtain and the carriage up to the stars. She remembered a conversation held long ago.

Not too long, maybe two moons ago, but it felt like a lifetime. Tristan and her had been lying under a star-spangled sky just like this one.

They had been talking about life after death, and Isolde recalled her own words with deep melancholy.

"_I will follow you wherever you go," Isolde said evenly._

_He laughed slightly, darkly amused. "Even if it meant that you had to spend your next life as a soil crumb?"_

"_Even then," she said earnestly._

She shook her head softly, as if to get rid of the memory. What good was it to her now- nothing but the dust of a happier time? Dust settled quickly, but it was blown away by a passing faint gust of wind even quicker.

She started to hum a quiet tune to drown out the silence, that threatened to swallow her up from the inside. A dark, moving shape inside the tight space of the carriage made her stop immediately. She wanted to scream, but a hand covered her mouth.

"It is me, Isolde."

"Merlin?"

"Yes," came the quiet reply.

"But how did you- I mean- how-?"

"It doesn't matter how," her relative said in a calm tone.

The silence spread. Isolde, in a vain attempted to fight it, quickly said:

"What happened to Crevan?"

Merlin was silent for a while. Then he said simply:

"I defeated him."

There was more to his simple sentence.

"At what cost?" she asked, already dreading the answer.

"My son, who was of my blood, of my mind, died," Merlin replied. His voice was devoid of emotion.

Isolde suppressed a sob, that wished to remind her of the emptiness and the silence inside her mind.

"I am sorry," she said. Her voice shook.

Again silence.

"Isolde," Merlin said finally in an even tone. "You still have the pipe, that I gave to you."

It was no question, but Isolde dreaded another period of silence and so she quickly said:

"I do."

Again, it was as if Merlin hadn't heard her or had chosen to ignore her words.

"Everything will be alright." His voice faded with the last words.

"But how?" Isolde cried quietly. "Merlin? Merlin?"

But he was already gone. Isolde peered through the curtain again. Blue mists had risen up, completely hiding the stars from view. With a heavy heart, she shut the curtain and curled up in a corner of the little carriage, trying to brave the silence and mute the desperate beating of her heart. Why was everything falling apart? She felt as if she was completely alone in the world.

***

The estate finally loomed up in the distance. Isolde almost wanted to look away, but then she decided to gather knowledge of the lay-out of her new prison. The estate was surrounded by a high stone wall, but there was a large oak gate, which was being opened for them.

They passed the first gate. The way to the house itself was lined with orderly-cut trees. Isolde shuddered upon seeing that perfect avenue.

Then they stopped in front of an iron gate, which was built into another wall.

"Artorius Castus and his knights!" That was the first thing, that Isolde heard upon their arrival at the estate.

"So ye are Marcellus?" That had clearly been Bors. Isolde risked a look out of the curtain.

Arthur and the knights had dismounted. In front of them was a chubby man, clothed in the traditional Roman _toga_. Upon hearing Bors's question, however, the man quickly shook his head, as if in horror.

"No! Of course not! My name is Linus Primus Aquilinus. I am the administrator of the estate."

Isolde decided that it was safe to get out of the carriage and so, she did so, walking over to Arthur and the chubby Roman.

The administrator eyed her in obvious distaste.

"You must be her, then," he said derisively.

A threatening growl came from Dagonet. Percival looked perfectly furious. The other knights wore angry looks as well.

"She does have a name, ye know," Bors spoke up, fury tinting his speech.

Aquilinus ignored him completely.

"If you would please follow me," he said to Arthur in a polite tone.  
"You!" He then barked and Isolde winced, startled at being addressed in such a tone.

"You," he said and scrutinised her again contemptuously. "You will go and make yourself half-way presentable."

A woman with honey-coloured hair, maybe of her age, came hurrying out of a smaller, inconspicuous door in the wall and took Isolde's arm, eyes downcast. Isolde hesitated, looking back at the knights.

But the woman wouldn't give in and dragged her along.

The last thing she saw, before she disappeared behind the door, was the surprisingly open look in Tristan's eyes.

His amber eyes spoke of pain and a despair that could rival hers.

Strangely enough, this filled her with new hope. Maybe he still cared for her, just a little bit, even after she had abused his trust so deeply.

Completely dressed up in Roman style, Isolde finally went to see Marcellus Aurelius for the first time. Godiva, as the other girl had introduced herself, accompanied her, eyes still downcast. Isolde had asked her, why she constantly looked to the ground.

Godiva had smiled cheerlessly. "They don't notice you so much."

Isolde had wanted to ask who "they" were, but then a Roman soldier had arrived, who had told them in a clipped tone, to "follow".

And so they followed him. They didn't speak. Isolde saw at Godiva's humiliated stance, that she would never receive an answer if she were to talk.

***

They arrived at a door. The Roman nodded to them, then disappeared around the corner.

Isolde had already raised her hand to knock, when she heard something that peaked her gave her a wide-eyed look when she let her hand sink again, but Isolde simply shushed her.

"…have to marry that savage from Gaul, because some mindless officials, who have probably never set a foot out of Rome said so."

It was the voice of a middle-aged man. An aggressive voice, a hard voice.

Another voice answered. It was deep and emotionless and it sent shivers down Isolde's spine.

"Why did they order that again? Wasn't it because of that Pe- Pe-?"

"Pelagius," the first man said. Isolde almost gasped. Pelagius. Arthur's teacher. Or was it merely a coincidence and only the same name?

The second man laughed unpleasantly. "Yes, that Pelagius. I heard he wanted to organise an uprising, so they had to give in. Something about equality.."

"Mindless idea!" the first one said quickly.

The second one answered: "I agree. Well, his head will roll soon enough. A quick dagger thrust in the night. The gents in Rome won't dirty their white hands, but every decent Senator has an assassin…"

"Or two," the first one added and they both laughed raucously.

There was a short pause. Then the second one said:

"Ah, don't worry Marcellus, she won't bother you. I am sure you will find a way."

Marcellus replied in that hard voice:

"Oh, I know she won't. There was that footnote in the order from Rome."

"Footnote?" The second one sounded intrigued.

"Yes," Marcellus said. "It said: Subjects are to be treated accordingly to personal liking."

A short silence, then they both guffawed.

Isolde felt how disgusted rage built up in her body. Roman pigs!

She wanted to turn around and go – never mind the consequences!- but she had forgotten about Godiva. Godiva raised her hand and knocked.

Immediately the laughter stopped.

"Enter!" Marcellus called.

* * *

_Please. If you like this story, then leave a review. It doesn't have to be long, just one, short word, telling me if you liked it or not. Reviews are always such a huge source of encouragement. I can't tell you how happy they make me. Really._


	26. Marcellus Aurelius

_Oh, you are the best! Really. Thank you so, so much for the reviews!!! They made me so happy. It's so good to know, that people still enjoy this story!!_

_So, thanks a lot, **Rhysel**, **Queen Amy** and **Aerlinniel-lairiel**! You are great!_

_Yes, another update. But I promised. I know I am crazy...^^, but the reviews were so encouraging that I got into a spontaneous mad-writing mood. However, I can't promise, that the next update will be as quick- as of tomorrow, my holidays are- sadly enough- over, and school, well, it demands a lot these days._

_In this chapter we finally get to know- as you can already see at the title- Marcellus Aurelius. So, now- enjoy!  
_

* * *

**26. Marcellus Aurelius**

*****  
**

Byaczt trod softly after his Master, thin red nostrils taking in the scent of the new stable.

The dappled horse neighed anxiously, rearing its head up.

Tristan turned around to his belligerent steed.

"Seems to me as if ye're havin' trouble with yer horse," Bors called. The other knights chuckled a little because of the mere absurdity of the comment. Sarmatians didn't have problems with their horses and Tristan was no exception.

"I am not," the scout replied evenly, his words more tinted by the hard accent than the words which came out of his fellow knights' mouths, probably due to his taciturnity.

"He doesn't like being locked up," he added quietly, his mouth set in a hard line.

Tristan then turned back to Byaczt to stroke his soft snoot. "Hush," he said softly. Byaczt finally calmed under his gentle administrations. Tristan didn't see his horse in that moment, didn't even see the stables. "…doesn't like being locked up." His own words came back to haunt him, to remind him of the look in Isolde's eyes as she was being dragged away. His Isolde, sold to a mindless Roman. Unconsciously he clenched his fists, a rare show of emotion on the impassive scout and several knights looked to him in wonder from where they were already tending to their horses.

Tristan finally realised where he was and what he was doing. Without a further word he placed Byaczt in the stable closest to him and removed the heavy saddle, rubbing his valiant steed down with hay.

When he was finished, he turned around to see Dagonet standing there, watching him.

"You are a fool, Tristan," the giant knight told him quietly, dislike tinting his words.

Tristan simply inclined his head, accepting the accusation. He didn't object.

Without another word, Dagonet turned around and walked over to Arthur, who was standing in the middle of the dimly-lit stables, apparently waiting for them to join him.

***

Tristan quietly waited somewhere in the shadows, but his gaze was fixed on Arthur, who was standing directly under a flickering, candle-lit lantern, that provided the only light in the stables save for the crude, little openings high up in the walls.

Arthur's green gaze strayed over the assembled knights.

Then, in a firm voice, he started to speak:

"Knights, before we go in there, I have to tell you something about Marcellus Aurelius."

"Yes?" Galahad queried impatiently.

"Marcellus Aurelius," Arthur started, his voice reverberating in the large room, "was once a _Tribunus _in the Legion VI Victrix Pia Fidelis Britannica, which basically means that he was the second-in-command of the whole sixth Legion."

"Yes, yes," Bedivere interrupted impatiently, "we have served long enough with Romans to understand those ridiculous military terms."

Arthur grazed him with a cool sideways glance, then went on.

"Anyway, he was injured and could serve no longer. So he was rewarded with this estate, however, he lost most of his political influence. His representatives in Rome are unreliable and likely to do as they please without him being able to stop it, due to his reluctance to leave Britannia."

Arthur paused again.

"So, as you can imagine, Marcellus Aurelius would do everything to regain influence in the Senate. Then, about half a year ago, for reasons I can't fathom, the Senate issued an order, that some of high rank would have to enter into marriage with the daughters of enemies."

"And our Isolde is such a daughter," Percival said heavily.

"Yes," Arthur confirmed. "Isolde is the daughter of Troucetes, who is the Chief of several Gallic tribes. An uneasy truce had been established earlier, but in order to make it last, Isolde was chosen to come to Britannia.

Marcellus Aurelius's loyal second, Lucius Sicinius, urged him to take Rome's offer and so a treaty was signed between Troucetes and Rome: Rome won't kill anymore Gallic warriors and the Gauls will acknowledge the Roman rule over Gaul. Isolde is merely the guarantee in that pact."

There was a long silence. Then Bedivere exploded: "What!? A bloody treaty?"

"They sold her like a piece of livestock?" Lancelot, too, was aghast.

Arthur only nodded sadly.

Rage burned in Tristan's dark eyes. He would make sure that the Roman suffered, when he killed him. He would do it slowly, patiently, meticulously.

"Let's go," Arthur finally said heavily to the knights, who still wore strong, disbelieving expressions.

"Well, what did ye all expect?" Bors spoke up, his gruff voice echoing in the building.

"They are Romans." There were grunts of acknowledgments through the rows of the knights.

"Let's go," Gaheris then repeated Arthur's words heavily, his pallor speaking of long nights spent in mourning for his and Gawain's brother Gareth, who had been killed in the fight with the Woads.

***

So, grudgingly, they followed Arthur, who led them up a marble staircase into a typical Roman house. Their heavy steps echoed loudly in the long stone corridors and more than one knight looked around in silent uneasiness. The white walls were decorated with all kind of frescos all depicting either battles or ceremonies of the Roman military.  
They walked on through a collonade, which lined a square place. In the middle was a large fountain, that constantly sloshed water over the marble basin, that held it. The place was open to the sky and they could see the grey clouds.

"It's where they get their water," Arthur said quietly, pointing to the fountain.

The knights looked at it, torn between disgust and awe for the gigantic Empire and its inventions. Arthur had been here before, obviously.

"Have you already been here?" Lancelot voiced their thoughts.

"When I was a boy, I sometimes came here with my father," Arthur explained and they didn't ask further, knowing that his family was a sore subject for their Commander.

Finally they arrived in front of an oak door. Arthur had already raised his hand to knock, then he thought better of it and turned around to his knights once more.

He spoke in a hushed voice:

"Listen. Don't be insolent now. It would probably be best if you didn't say anything, no matter what Marcellus says, that might insult you. He doesn't have so much power anymore, but enough power-"

"To do what?" Galahad's young voice, maybe a bit too loud.

Arthur fixed him with an impatient glare. "Enough power to bind you for another fifteen years, Galahad."

"Oh." The youngster was silent.

"And enough power to remove Arthur from his position."

Tristan had spoken up, his voice serious. They looked at him, then back at Arthur, dread in their eyes. They knew that Arthur was the best thing that had ever happened to them.

"He is right," Arthur confirmed. Then he gave them one last, stern look and finally knocked.

A tanned servant opened the door.

"Centurio Artorius Castus?" he asked.

Arthur gave a single nod of confirmation and the man bade them to enter.

***

They entered into a large room with an intricate tile pattern on the floor.

In the middle of the room were two elegant cots. And there, standing next to the cots, were two men, a bigger and a smaller one, both of them clothed in the traditional toga. Tristan's gaze hushed over them before he found Isolde, who was standing with her back pressed to another door, fear in her eyes. The petite, honey-blonde woman stood next to her, her eyes downcast. The bigger man gave the honey-blonde woman a nod and she disappeared through the door, dragging Isolde behind, who gave him a last, desperate look.

Tristan was ready to pounce on the Roman by then, but he remembered Arthur's words and stood still, which cost him a great amount of his considerable control.

"Centurio Artorius Castus," the bigger Roman, Marcellus Aurelius greeted. He was a tall, older man with black hair, that greyed at the edges. It was obvious, that he had once been a military man, but the beginning of a belly showed, that he was enjoying the civilian life. His blue eyes were sharp and cold, like icicles. The smaller man standing next to him had completely grey hair. Dark, malicious eyes looked out of a wrinkled face.

Arthur raised his arm to the traditional Roman greeting.

"Ave, Marcellus Aurelius and Lucius Sicinius," he said very formally.

Again, the knights were ignored by the two Romans, a habit of the people living here, or so it seemed.

While Arthur and the Romans were talking the knights stayed in the background, motionless, feeling more and more ridiculous with each passing second. Soon they began to exchange annoyed and exasperated glances, but with Arthur's words still in the back of their heads, they kept silent.

Tristan was lost in his own thoughts. His inscrutable mask impenetrable he stared at something only he could see, unaware of Dagonet watching him.

Tristan had seldom felt so helpless. He had to escape this house. He had never been good with confined, narrow spaces and everything in him longed to break free.

But he had to stay here and witness her demise.

He knew that it was cowardly to wish to escape, to wish that he was anywhere else but here, when it was the hour of her greatest need. But he could not bear to see her like this, his Isolde, the vibrant, fresh woman he loved shackled to a careless, old Roman.

He was shaken out of his thoughts by Arthur's voice.

"I am afraid we have to decline your generous invitation, Marcellus Aurelius," he was saying.

"Oh no," the Roman protested. "I insist."

"Very well," Arthur said with a sigh. "Then we will stay to the wedding, but not any longer."

Horror gripped Tristan in icy waves. The wedding? He _could_ _not_ stay until the wedding.

But so he could only watch, as Arthur, with a last nod to the Romans told them to follow.

***

Once they had exited the room and the tense atmosphere, Bors bellowed:

"Why the hell did you accept his invitation?"

Lancelot gave him an impatient glare. "Think about it Bors. This was no invitation-"

"-It was an order," Arthur finished heavily.

To their surprise, it was Tristan who spoke up next.  
"Arthur," he said quietly. "Let me explore our return route."  
Arthur frowned, while Bors laughed uproariously. "Are you afraid of weddings?"

Tristan ignored him and stared intently at Arthur.  
"I am afraid I have to decline your request, Tristan," Arthur finally answered. "Marcellus expects all of us to attend the wedding. It would be a breach of etiquette if you departed."

Tristan only nodded and fell back. Three of the other knights guessed his reason for asking, and those three were Percival, Dagonet and Lancelot, who was beginning to get an idea of what bothered Tristan, because he had been nursing suspicions for months now.

Thus, after denying Tristan's request, the knights and Arthur followed the tanned servant, who brought them to their assigned rooms.

On the horizon, beyond the estate, a storm was brewing.

* * *

_tbc...so, did you like it?_


	27. A Fallen Star

_Thank you sooo much for the great, amazing reviews!!! I am so happy that you are still interested in the story!_ _Thank you, **Rhysel**, **Lairiel **and of course **ILuvOdie ! **_

_So this is actually a chapter, I am very fond of. It hasn't taken me long to write, no, but I am happy with it. If you want to listen to the song, I had in mind, when I wrote about the dance (you'll see which dance later), then go to You Tube and listen to "Requiem for a dream." Wonderful song, haunting melody. I can only recommend it. But I took the short version of it, not the longer one._

_Oh, yes, I know that I am crazy for updating so soon again. But I can't help it...the weather outside is so grey, miserable, rainy and I can't do anything except writing (and going to school , but well, who cares )=). _

_Your wonderful, kind reviews also encouraged me to go on soon! Thank you again for them, thank you so much!!! You're the best reviewers anyone could wish for.  
_

_Sachita (=  
_

* * *

**27. A Fallen Star**

*****  
**

The day of the wedding started foggy, cloudy. It reflected exactly the mood of the Sarmatian audience, who were waiting for the ceremony to begin.

They had all assembled in a hall. Marcellus Aurelius stood at the far side of the room, looking bored. The audience had assembled on the sides of the room, in front of the elaborately-panelled walls. It was not a big audience, maybe that was why Marcellus had been so intent on having Arthur and the knights stay. There were just some other Romans standing about, looking decidedly bored. But those were all minor details. The stuffy warmth didn't matter, neither did this sumptuous room. All that mattered was her. And it was her they were all waiting for.

He stood at the back, looking impassive on the outside, but on the inside he was shaking with black fury.

And then she entered.

She was so beautiful, glowing like a fallen star, green eyes, that would have melted the hardest man's heart. She was so beautiful that it was painful to look at her.

And she would never be his.

It struck him like a blade, that breathless, harsh realisation and he thought, that it might help to escape from the room, to run as quick as a flying arrow until he had outrun her and the shadow she cast upon the room now, standing in the doorway.

"Arthur," he said as low as he could, trying to keep the man from noticing, how he had to strain himself so his voice wouldn't crack.

"Tristan?" his Commander said, half-turning to him.

"It could be prudent if I went out to scout, to make sure that there are no dangers nearby."

Tristan was well-aware of the ambiguity of the word "prudent" here.

Arthur's voice sounded slightly irritated as he replied: "Tristan, Lord Marcellus has invited us to stay. It would be discourteous if you departed now. Besides," he added, already turning back to watch the proceedings, "I am sure the Lord has already taken precautions."

Tristan, contrary to his normal ways, already wanted to argue the point- he _couldn't_ stay here- when suddenly the sweet melody of a _cithara, _a Roman kind of musical instrument started up.

The audience clapped. Tristan felt how cold beads of sweat started to run down his face and seep in his beard.

He felt sick, almost as if he had a fever and a violent shivering attack at the same time.

Isolde was walking forth now, her stride even, her head held high. Only when she passed them, she gave Arthur a nod of recognition, but when her eyes flickered over to him, he could read the utmost despair and almost mad longing in them.

He actually trembled, which made Gawain next to him look at him in concern and wonder.

***

Tristan's composure was wavering. He clenched his hands to fists, thump, thump, thump, his heart beat loudly in his throat.

The trembles were more violent now. His whole body was shaking.

His mind was blurring.

It took a lot for him to restrain himself and not just jump up on that podium, kill that fat, mindless Roman and tear his very heart out! The veil in front of his eyes constantly changed from powerless, raging red to indescribable, unpronounceable, bleak black.

A wreath was in her hair, her hair!, her black, long curves of hair, which were captured in one of those senseless, freedom-robbing Roman hairstyles.

Her dress was simple, white, a Roman _stola_, but to him she had never looked more beautiful.

And. She. Would. Never. Be. His. Never.

Dark spots now appeared in front of his eyes.

He swayed and trembled along with the melody of the Cithara.

Then, abruptly, he gasped, a harsh, loud sound in the silence, more out of a need for air, than out of grief. His breath still quickened.

Gawain now put a both restraining and calming hand on his arm, sensing that there was something deeper, darker going on with Tristan and their scout was nearly on the way to one of his dark-tempered outbursts again. Then he caught a glimpse of the amber eyes. There was so much anguish, so much wordless grief bound in them, that Gawain very nearly gasped himself.

Then he followed Tristan's gaze and suddenly all fell in place.

Isolde, the Gallic woman who had become a friend to all of them, was standing there, next to that Roman bastard, looking for all the world as if she was to be sold to a slave driver, which she actually was, he realised with a start.

And Tristan…he looked back to his friend. He looked almost mad, an impression that was only increased by the slight shivers running through his slim frame. But his eyes…Gawain felt how a fist clenched around his heart and drove tears in his eyes. Pain was all he could see. Pain and an overwhelming blackness. He exhaled, an unsteady gust of air, as he was faced with so much overwhelming grief from Tristan out of all people.  
"You love her," he breathed in sudden recognition. Tristan didn't appear to have heard.

"Tristan," he said hoarsely, shaking his friend's arm.

No reaction.

"Tristan," he said louder, attracting the attention of some Romans, who stared at him impatiently. However, Gawain's full focus was on Tristan, who now slowly turned to him.

He didn't say anything, however, his eyes spoke volumes, and Gawain thought that even his brother in arms, his friend, his brother couldn't have hidden so much pain behind the mask, that he normally showed the world with so much skill.

Gawain remained silent, as did Tristan. He just kept looking in the scout's eyes, reaching a silent agreement with the man not to look at the proceedings.

The wedding ceremony started, silence fell in the room.

And that was when Tristan tore his gaze away from Gawain's with an almost audible snap.

* * *

The cloth covering her felt like her burial shroud, her hair was lifelessly gathered on her head.

Her audience were the vultures, already waiting for their piece.

Constraint. Death. Frozen.

But he didn't look like all the others, who looked all the same to her in that moment.

He was alive, with glowing eyes and a curved mouth. Her knight, who could never be hers.

_Tristan_.

His name stayed on her lips, a toneless whisper, as a melody started and Marcellus Aurelius grabbed her waist.

"You'll be my very own pagan toy from now on, Milady," he whispered derisively in her ear.

She didn't listen, didn't even think. _Tristan_.

"Are you deaf?" He hissed, grabbing her arm harsher than he would have needed too.

"I am not deaf," she whispered. "I am dead."

The last part of her broken murmuring drowned in the applause, as the dance came to an end.

Her gaze caught Arthur's and she looked past him, in the amber eyes, which were so full of everything, that her frozen heart skipped a beat. Numbness.

Marcellus Aurelius had followed her gaze. "Ah," he smiled cruelly.

"What about a dance with another man? Maybe," he stroked his chin thoughtfully, "one of those fearless dark riders you have travelled with. Yes, I think that will be a very good idea indeed."

His small eyes glittered with perverse pleasure at the pain this would cause her.

***

Dazedly Isolde stared at the ground. She knew whom he would pick.

"Artorius Castus," Marcellus called.

Arthur looked up quickly. "Yes, my Lord?"

"Are your fearless knights," a small, derisive smirk curled his lips, "able to dance?"

"To dance, My Lord?" Arthur repeated, caught by utter surprise.

"Yes, to dance," the Roman said impatiently. "Well, are they?"

Arthur wistfully remembered hours spent trying to teach his knights Roman customs and traditions. He had failed spectacularly, but it had been an entertaining afternoon.

Now the whole memory was tainted with a dark foreboding feeling. He didn't know why this question had been posed, but he got the feeling that he didn't want to know.

"They can dance the dances, that are custom in their homeland," he said firmly, feeling the burning gazes of his knights on his back.  
"Ah," Marcellus laughed, a cold sound. "Well, pagans are and will always be pagans I guess. But my _wife_," his eyes strayed over the still figure clothed in white robes disdainfully, showing what he was really thinking of her, "can't do Roman dances either. So I guess we will just entertain ourselves with some pagan spectacle, won't we?"

He laughed, the audience uncomfortably joined in his laughter. Only the knights didn't laugh. Dark anger rolled off them in waves.

"How convenient," Marcellus chimed, "that I happen to have some musicians here, who are pagans themselves. They can provide us with the suitable music. After all, these pagan dances are everywhere the same, aren't they?"

He paused. Arthur opened his mouth to give a sharp retort, when Marcellus continued:

"I was thinking of…him. There. Behind you, Artorius."

Everyone turned. Gawain closed his eyes. Dagonet froze.

Tristan. He was pointing at Tristan who met his gaze evenly, challenging.

**

Gawain next to him breathed a quiet sigh of relief, seeing that the scout had at least regained some of his control on the exterior. But then horror overcame him again. By coming so close to that Roman swine, Tristan would have the opportunity to…He had _knives_.

Gawain gasped, this time in horror and wanted to snatch Tristan's arm, but he was too slow.

"I must protest-" Arthur started but he was cut off by a calm, icy voice.

"No. Arthur. Let me handle it."

Surprised, Arthur stared in the amber eyes of his scout. "Tristan-"  
"No." Now that he looked closer at him, Arthur could see that all was not well.

Tristan was very pale and his dark eyes smoldered with deadly anger. He was even trembling faintly, at least Arthur thought so.

But he didn't protest anymore. Instead, he nodded mutely and watched as his scout gracefully strode over to the petite woman, he had come to think of as friend.

***

"My Lady," Tristan said very quietly, but his deep voice still reverberated through the room.

All was silent.

Isolde looked up, the look in her eyes akin to a sun ray emerging from behind troubled, stormy clouds. All of them saw it. Marcellus Aurelius saw it too.

But he couldn't stop anything anymore now, lest he didn't lose his face.

Tristan meanwhile took her hand and together, silently, they tried out some steps. But even their trying-out looked intimate, his large hand covering her small one, faces just inches apart.

Marcellus was seething. Gawain risked a fleeting look around.

The faces of his fellow Sarmatians and Arthur's face were all frozen in an understanding grimace of horror when they looked at the pair.

It was as if someone had suddenly stopped the time.

But time moved again, when Tristan gave the musicians, who sat in the corner, a sign.

The dark-eyed, fiery musicians- desert people- were no free men either as was shown by the thick iron chains around their ankles. But they fit strangely in the atmosphere. Here they were, unfree knights from a land long-since suppressed by an insatiable Empire. There in the middle of the room the only one of them who was a captured, free man. And in his arms the woman of another conquered land, that had been as well swallowed by the dragon named Rome.

It almost felt revolutionary and the atmosphere was sated with that feeling. They straightened up, fear in their hearts, yet a strange pride taking over them as well. Arthur looked pale, grim-faced, anxious. Gawain felt sorry for him.

***

Slowly a haunting melody started to rise up, soared into the air and spread its wings.

The dance of golden dust on endless plains. The sun beating mercilessly down.

Tristan brought his arm around Isolde's waist. Their eyes were fixed upon each other.

Step. She followed his movement. Slowly.

Shimmering air. The same plains in winter. Frozen.

Another step, a breath, loud in the silence.

A hawk crying among the bright clouds on a sapphire sky.

The melody started to get faster, breathless, excited.

He twirled her around. And then they started to glide through the room, as if they were no longer part of this earth. Unearthly, ethereal.  
A dance that robbed you of your senses and clouded your mind. It was a wild dance, a free dance. Their eyes were barely able to keep up with their movements.

They spun through the room so fast that it seemed as if they weren't touching the ground.

Not this ground at least.

A grassy, wide land. The beat of hooves on the ground. Wind in dark hair, eyes glowing with the promise of home.

A pause. A dark tune.

Sad little boys on strong, dark horses. Despaired mothers' eyes. The tears of a little sister.

The melody picked up again, haunting, grew faster and faster.

They picked up where they had left off, effortlessly twirling through the room again.

Legends whispered about at red, cracking fires. Armoured soldiers returning as horses.

Boys with dark eyes listening avidly.

Then the song came abruptly to an end. No long postlude, in the middle of a melody.

A grazing deer, frozen in its movement by a spear. Swords sticking in green mounds.

And Tristan, Isolde in his arms , bent over, his lips only inches from hers, their eyes firmly fixed on each other. Tristan breathing harshly, Isolde with opened hair.

They all snapped out of their frozen stupor at the same moment only to stare in shock at the scene in front of them.

Then several things happened at once.

Tristan let Isolde go with a kiss on the hand and a murmured:

"Thank you for the dance, My Lady."

Meanwhile, a dark-haired, brutish Roman roared and ran towards Tristan with a raised sword.

Undoubtedly he had been set up by Marcellus, who watched the proceedings with a hard stare.

When the potential assassin was only half a metre away, he fell, one of Tristan's daggers embedded in his throat.

The others were relieved at first.

Never had they doubted Tristan's abilities, but it was a relief still.

Then Gawain's eyes found Arthur's face. Their Commander looked anguished.

Then a hard cold fact caught up with them.

Tristan had killed a Roman. In self-defence. But he had killed a Roman.

And Roman laws stood over justice.

* * *

_tbc...so, do you like it?_


	28. A Dark Eve

_Another update! Thank you very very much for your reviews, **Lairiel**, **Rhysel** and **CarolinaJuliette** ( a new reviewer, welcome aboard!) **! **Your feedback made my week!**  
**_

_I have to warn you, however, this one is a quite dark chapter. The dance has, as you probably already guessed, quite dire consequences. Still, I hope, that you like it (=_

_The next update should hopefully come sometime next week. School is already evil,__ so shortly after the holidays. Maths tries to kill me, presentations in English are evil as well... )= ... but still, the next update should be next week._ _If not- well, then you know, that maths has succeeded :D_

_-Sachita :D  
_

* * *

**28. A Dark Eve**

***

Two muscled Romans marched him out of the Great Hall as if he was a slave. He could have fought them, but he didn't struggle as much when he saw Arthur's stare.

Still, he nicked one of them with his dagger and a dark, amused smirk hushed over his face briefly at the Roman's curse.

How he loathed in that moment, that he hadn't been able to do more damage, because they had had to relinquish their weapons at the entrance, and he had done so, save for some of his daggers hidden in inconspicuous places.

"Courtesy demands it," Arthur had explained.

"What does it demand? Being defenceless?" Lancelot had scoffed and Tristan had been sure, that the other man was just as irritated as he was to submit his weapons, but in the end the others and him had done it. He would have done it anyway. He would have done anything just to see her again.

But now, when one of them opened a door and the other threw him into a small room like an animal, there was no Arthur to hold him back or to tell him what courtesy entailed.

Nearly weaponless , save for one dagger in his boot, but angered beyond reason, he jumped up from the ground in one fluid movement, intent on punching the guard.

But he had made a mistake, not looking behind him.

He received a sharp knock on the head, that made a sickening sound and left him reeling.  
Dizzy, he spun around as fast as the flashes in front of his eyes would allow him, and was met with the distorted grimace of another Roman. Ah. A door to his left. He had missed it in the dim light. The only light source was a small, trellised window high up in the bare wall.

Tristan snarled and threw himself at the new opponent. He took him down in one graceful movement, both of them struggling on the ground.

A punch to the head was all that it took for rendering the Roman helpless and sending him into unconsciousness.

He jumped up again, his hands formed to fists, daring the two Romans to approach him. They looked hesitant, even though he was alone. He snarled, showing his teeth. These men were cowards. He was just getting ready to take them both on at the same time, when footsteps sounded, making the Romans perk up. Reinforcements had arrived and still no sign of Arthur.

No doubt they'd take delight in avenging the death of their comrade.

Tristan retreated to the back of the room. He kept a wary eye out for the Romans, but all that he could hear was the sound of hushed talking.

Quickly he withdrew his last dagger from his boot and crouched down into a defensive position. They came pouring in then, a dozen of them. Cowards.

Tristan sneered at them and was just getting ready to pounce on the first-

"Stop!" A voice called from the corridor. Lancelot. Tristan was still tense.

"Who are you?" A tall Roman called back.

"I was sent by your Master and by Centurio Artorius Castus."

That made them pause, they looked at each other unsurely. However, before anyone could have reacted, there was a snarl from Tristan's right side.

He dimly saw a Roman's angered expression, then everything went dark.

***

Lancelot froze in anger, when he saw Tristan crumple to the ground.

"Roman bastards!" he snarled loudly. "Didn't I tell you to stop?"  
The Romans stared at him, mercenaries, no real soldiers, he noted.

"We couldn't be sure," the one, who had knocked Tristan to the ground, said.

"_Ayach_!" Lancelot seethed in Sarmatian, no Latin words coming to his mind.

Fortunately, footsteps sounded again and Arthur stepped to his side, followed by Marcellus Aurelius and some other men.

"Arthur…"Lancelot said tightly.

Arthur took in the scene in front of his eyes with his usual calm- though Lancelot was sure that on the inside he was furious- then he turned to Marcellus Aurelius, his green eyes hard.

"Your men injured my knight," he stated softly.

Marcellus Aurelius made a cruel, careless hand gesture. "You can't tell me, Arthur, that you are actually that concerned about your subordinates."

A sentence spoken like a careless military man, someone who only saw the objective and would use all means to take it.

"He has to be punished anyway," Marcellus continued conversationally. Lancelot clenched his teeth and Arthur put a calming hand on his arm.

"My Lord," he said, and even though the address itself was humble, they all noted the underlying tone of warning. Marcellus's eyes tightened.

"This man," he gestured to where Tristan still lay motionless, "is one of my knights. My men are to be treated according to law and order. _Your_ men clearly didn't follow the rules."

Marcellus Aurelius's mask finally fell. Anger distorting his face, he snarled:

"Oh yes, I have heard of you and your mindset, Artorius Castus. You and your strange ways of showing mercy to everyone, no matter what they are, not matter what they have done…"

***

Lancelot didn't listen anymore. His eyes were focused on Tristan, who finally seemed to be coming around, for he slowly started to move.

Lancelot brushed past the Roman mercenaries, who let him through, though with underlying, cunning anger still in their faces. The Sarmatian didn't care.

He crouched down next to his brother knight. Tristan's eyes slowly fluttered open. For a millisecond he seemed disoriented, then, quicker than Lancelot would have thought possible, he jumped to his feet.

"Tristan," the dark knight said lowly, trying to keep the scout in check, who, undoubtedly, was already thinking of ways how to make the one, who had knocked him down, suffer.

No one struck Tristan down without paying for it.

Lancelot quickly put a restraining hand on Tristan's arm and the scout's eyes flickered over to him, his face contorted in a vicious snarl.

"This is about diplomacy, Tristan," Lancelot whispered. To his surprise, the scout nodded and his expression slipped back to impassiveness, as they both listened to the course of the loud conversation in the door frame.

***

"Do not underestimate me, Artorius Castus!" Marcellus Aurelius had said it, his eyes two slits. "You all saw the way your knight stared at my wife! As if he wanted to eat her!"

"Leave this be, Aurelius. A look isn't a crime, as far as I know," Arthur said coldly and Lancelot shot a quick look at Tristan, who was standing next to him, looking as impassive as ever. Meanwhile, a ripple of surprise came from the audience, and Lancelot understood why. Gone was the façade of politeness, that Arthur had carefully sought to maintain only seconds before, while Marcellus had let it slip long before. It bared the true intentions of the two men, and Lancelot was almost glad for it.

No word of this talk could ever reach anyone else, for it was also Marcellus, who had slipped and it was Marcellus, whose power was fading, Marcellus, who needed to maintain a façade, not Arthur.

Arthur was a young, aspiring Roman Centurio in the eyes of the Senate, someone who was holding Rome's outposts on difficult territory with admireable skill, someone whom they didn'twant to get rid of. A breach of etiquette from his side- well, they'd say, he is under a lot of strain, is he not? They would forgive him. At least that was Lancelot's view on the matter.

Marcellus, on the other hand…from all that Arthur had told them, Lancelot had the impression, that Marcellus was for Rome something that they wanted to get rid of. They only needed an excuse and a breach of etiquette would be a step in the right direction.

Lancelot was shaken out of his thoughts, once again, by Marcellus's raised voice.

"Do not underestimate my power, Centurio Castus," Marcellus was hissing.

In an attempt to remain civil, Arthur said: "I am not, my Lord."

"Then your knight needs to be punished. He killed one of my soldiers." Marcellus glared.

Arthur responded to the glare with one of his own. Frigid blue eyes looked on determined green eyes. And neither man relented.

***

To their collective surprise, it was Tristan, who stepped forward, his stride a little shaky, but his head held high.

"Arthur," he said lowly, his amber eyes sharp as he looked at the scene. Lancelot understood in that moment, that Tristan had come to the same conclusions as he had.

He stared at the scout, convinced, that the man had finally gone mad, if he intended to do what Lancelot thought.

"Arthur," Tristan repeated patiently. This time, both men broke the stare.

Arthur inclined his head, the gravity of the situation in his eyes.

"I will accept the punishment." Lancelot couldn't help a loud snort of irritation. _Congratulations, Tristan, that does it._ Clearly their scout was a madman. Lancelot wondered, why none of them had come to that conclusion earlier. Well, maybe Galahad had.

Arthur sent him a brief sideways look, filled with exasperation and a request to keep quiet. Lancelot wasn't surprised. Arthur had always been able to read him best and he had probably interpreted the snort the right way. He wondered if Arthur's thoughts about Tristan's statement went along the same lines as his.

Arthur shook his head imperceptibly and turned back to the scout and Marcellus Aurelius, the whole exchange having taken no more than a second. Lancelot, however, was sure that Tristan had noticed the whole thing with that uncanny ability of his. He snorted again, this time quieter.

"Are you sure, Tristan?" Arthur's voice was heavy and laced with something indefinable.

"I am sure," Tristan said stealthily.

"Very well," Arthur sighed. Marcellus Aurelius's face was filled with glee and Lancelot felt that he was quickly becoming tired of holding the need to punch the man back.

"Centurio Artorius Castus and I will now decide on the punishment," Marcellus announced to no one in particular. Arthur nodded, his face grave and full of dread.

"Lancelot, you stay with Tristan," he ordered. Then they were gone.

The mercenaries, who had hung around warily, trickled out one by one. Two of them carried an unconscious comrade, no doubt Tristan's work.

***

Then they were alone. Tristan, indifferent as ever, collected one of his daggers and sat down on the stony ground, leaning against the wall, long legs stretched out in front of him.

Lancelot felt that he had to let his frustration out, lest he didn't punch Tristan this time which would undoubtedly end badly for both of them. So he started to pace up and down.

Tristan stared at him indifferently. Damn the man and his cool.

"Why did you do it?" Lancelot finally hissed.

Tristan took a bite from a shiny green apple, that he had withdrawn from some odd pocket of his. Lancelot didn't want to know.

"I had to," the scout replied patiently, calmly.

Lancelot wished to strangle him. His steps got quicker. Yes, of course, Tristan was right, Marcellus still had influence, he could do considerable harm to Arthur or them and so on and on. But that still didn't explain Tristan's decision. Arthur would have…Lancelot had no answer. His pacing got more aggressive.

***

Tristan watched Lancelot's agitated pacing with hooded eyes. He felt calm. What good did being upset do? He would accept the punishment if it helped keeping them all out of harm's way. It was his job to keep them all out of harm's way. Lancelot couldn't understand it, but he had never expected the man to understand. And he'd never expect Lancelot to understand, that, given the chance to live it all over again, he'd still do everything the same.

"Oh Gods," Lancelot suddenly moaned, as some kind of twisted realisation hit him.

Tristan eyed him warily. Lancelot's realisations usually had the habit to be a little absurd.

What made them so dangerous, however, was that it usually were the absurd realisations that were the right ones.

"Lancelot," Tristan said coolly.

"Shut up," his fellow knight barked, "I am trying to think here."

"Good luck," Tristan wryly offered, but Lancelot didn't appear to have heard. A crease was starting to appear between his eyebrows. Then he whirled around and stared at Tristan with wide, reproachful eyes. "You love her! Ha!"

Tristan growled.

Lancelot ignored him. He hit his forehead with his hand.

"I am such a fool. You- you love her," he accused again. Tristan just stared at him, didn't confirm it, but apparently Lancelot needed no confirmation.

"All those months I suspected…" Lancelot was talking quietly to himself. Then his eyes snapped abruptly up again and found Tristan's. Lancelot must have seen something in them, for his anger suddenly deflated.

"Gods, Tristan." Lancelot looked as weary as Tristan felt.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?"

Tristan shrugged. "What difference would it have made?" he asked evenly.

"Gods, Tristan," Lancelot repeated numbly and sank down on the cold stone floor next to him. They sat like that for a long time.

***

Arthur entered the room some time later. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. Tristan wasn't sure. His eyes, however, soon slid away from Arthur's weary face to stare at the giant Roman behind his Commander silently. His lips contorted to a snarl.

* * *

A pale-faced Lancelot entered the stables to join the anxious group of knights gathered there.

"What is happening?" Bedivere demanded hotly.

"What are they doing to Tristan?" Percival asked, his voice even.  
Lancelot pressed his lips to a thin line.

"They are flogging him, are they not?"

Iwain had drawled that, fingering one of his knives, not looking up.  
"Why do _you_ bother?" Bedivere snapped, however, Lancelot was for once glad for Iwain's comment. He didn't have to say it, then, he just gave a little nod to their questioning faces.

"Gods," the perceptive Erec moaned. He didn't have to say it. They all knew what this would do to someone as proud as Tristan.

"We are riding out as soon as Arthur and Tristan join us," Lancelot finally said into the silence. Dagonet had been in action as soon as Iwain's words had left his mouth.

He was already preparing a linen and some clear water. A small pot stood next to him. It was well-known to all the knights: it contained some sort of salve, that they all got administered, whenever one of them was hurt. They hated it, because its colour was a poisonous-looking green and it smelled like a dead bear.

"Steer clear of Tristan in the next days," Bors said, attempting a joke. No one laughed.

"I wish Isolde were here," Galahad murmured suddenly. "She would know what to do."

It only served to make them think of the woman, who had become a friend to all of them. With her compassionate ways and her witty retorts, she somehow had seemed to be as fixed an appearance at the fort as Vanora. But she wasn't and that was what they all had to face.

Dagonet sighed slightly, wondering if he was the only who thought of Tristan's connection to her in that moment. He met Percival's eyes and he saw Lancelot's understanding expression.

"Yes," he said eventually, his rough voice making the others look up, for he said almost as little as Tristan, and his words were always important.

"She will be missed."

* * *

Mere hours had passed since that fateful dance.

Isolde watched, as the knights rode out. Watched as he rode away.

"What did I ever do to deserve this?" she asked the silence. Sunshine fell unfiltered through one of the window openings, made the dust, that danced in the air, suddenly to golden mist.

A bird chirped somewhere outside. Isolde exhaled deeply. To be that bird- to be as free as the wind and as swift as a rain shower!

She took a step. Another step. A twirl. She closed her eyes and spun around and around, her dark hair imitating her movements. She stopped amidst a movement. The dark hair covered her like a black veil. She remained there, her eyes still tightly shut. Eventually she took another step. Twirl. Breath.

A pale imitation of the dance. She remembered his arms around her, his strong, warm arms. How safe she had felt…How foolish of her to think that it would last, that he could protect her, that somehow Marcellus Aurelius would cease to exist.

No. She was alone. Completely alone.

That sudden, newly-found knowledge made her take another step and she tried to imagine what life without him would be like. She paused. She couldn't.

Their argument, the silence between them after her – in his eyes- betrayal in form of telling Merlin about the battle, seemed petty to her now, now that she knew, that he still cared.

But it didn't matter. She was never going to see him again. This thought made her shudder and pause in her mechanic movements. Breathing hurt, every breath brought him farther away. Her heart ached and she put a hand over it, as if she could keep it intact that way.

The door flew open. Loud, reverberating footsteps.

She didn't have to look up to see that it was Marcellus Aurelius.

"You thought that you would go unpunished, didn't you?" he hissed.

She didn't answer, thinking it wise to remain silent.

He didn't seem to want an answer. "Lady, you are to be punished, too," he said and he laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh.

Isolde looked up weakly. His face wore an evil expression.

Then his arms shot out and he pressed her to his body. His foul breath brushed her ear.

"No!" Isolde screamed, despair gripping her in waves. She struggled to break free.

"Nooo!"

He only laughed. Isolde didn't see clearly anymore.

She struggled with all her might, shrieking, screaming.

From the corners of her eyes she thought to see Godiva in the door frame, her pretty face frozen to a mask. "Help me!" she screamed.

Godiva turned around and fled.

Despaired, she struggled again, weakly. He crushed his lips on hers brutally. She could taste blood on her tongue.

Outside, the bird chirped again and took wing. Soon, the grey curtain of Autumn rain swallowed its little body up.

* * *

_tbc...What did you think of this one?_

* * *


	29. The Long, Starless Night

_Thank you so much for the reviews, **CarolinaJuliette**_, _**ILuvOdie, Rhysel **and of course **Lairiel! **You truly are the best!**  
**_

_So I know, that I said, I would only update next week, but I was so happy when I saw, that this story has 85 reviews! Thank you, thank you, thank you! _

_Thus, I doubled my efforts in completing this chapter- I had more time on my hands than I initially thought- and so here it is. It's my birthday today and so this is my present from me to you._

_As of today, I am officially an adult. Yay! Well, or maybe not so yay, but it is a great feeling nonetheless. Driving a car alone, staying at parties as long as I like....(= Sounds good._

_This is sort of a somber chapter as well. But it will all get better, I promise! Soon. So...the next update will really be next week. Yes. No compromises there^^  
_

_So, hope to "see" you soon!_

_Greetings,_

_Sachita  
_

* * *

**29. The Long, Starless Night**

*****  
**

She shivered, drawing the tattered remains of her dress tighter around her body.

There was no light, only blackness. She exhaled and the sound of her breath made a hissing sound in the silence. It was so cold.

Her body ached from what he had done to her. But she could not afford to linger on these thoughts for too long. When she had been tossed in this black hole, she had sobbed for so, so long. She had tried to be like the nothingness, that surrounded her, after it.

Being nothing did imply being frozen. Being nothing did imply feeling nothing.

But she could not feel nothing. And so she returned from the feeling of nothingness to see her surroundings more closely: to taste the cold, musty air in her lungs and to hear the slight drizzle of water somewhere in her prison. And then the feeling of fear returned, but her tears were gone by now. She couldn't cry anymore.

But slowly, shame crawled up in her, and a deep-sated misery that made her shiver and whimper slightly. Her bare feet were cold and wet on the slimy ground.

She tugged the hem of her dress over them.

"Why me?" she wondered, not reproachfully, just a simple, curious question into that overwhelming blackness. The voice, that had come out of her mouth, was weak and scratchy.

But it had to be her voice. She took a moment to reflect on that and then…

"That's what they all ask."

Terror gripped her in waves, made her choke and cough. She trembled and pressed into her corner, hoping that the voice would go away, if she did not respond. To no avail.

"Well, but I can tell, that you are not broken yet," the voice continued.

She was going mad. That had to be it. She was hearing voices.

"No," she mumbled quietly to herself. "No, no, no, no…"

"Trust me, denial won't help."

"Who are you?" It was a desperate, broken shout.

"Ah," the voice cackled, a high-pitched, long cackle.

"You disappoint me. That's also what they all ask."

"Who are they?" Isolde asked hoarsely into the dark, figuring that if she was going mad, she might as well talk back to the voice.

"Ah." The cackling had stopped. "Now you're showing some wit. They are your predecessors."  
"My what?"

"Your predecessors. Young women like you. But normally Marcellus doesn't tire of them that soon."

"Maybe I am just a special case,"  
Isolde said, after she had come over the shock, regaining some of her wit.

"Then I am sorry for you, child."  
With that the silence returned.

* * *

Routine had quickly returned to the inhabitants of the fort. They rode out, got in skirmishes with the Woads or stray Rogues, spent their evenings in the tavern and moaned about the British weather.

All was the same save for the length of Tristan's scouting trips. Sometimes he was even gone for a week. He seemed even more taciturn than usual and if provoked, his outbursts were dark-tempered and violent. They all kept their distance, save for Dagonet, Gawain, Percival and, surprisingly enough, Lancelot.

Tristan didn't once say a word of what bothered him and there was no telling that something bothered him, the emotionless mask firmly fixed on his face.

But he didn't have to say anything for they knew.

* * *

Her days passed like her nights. It was an endless stream of nothingness, silence.

Occasionally the croaky voice of the old woman, who was down there with her, interrupted the silence. Isolde rarely replied to her as she had discerned, that the woman was mad. She didn't know what the other was here for, and how long she had been here, but it was of no significance to her.

However, mostly there was silence and Isolde spent her days in a half-conscious state.

Her thoughts were of warmer days, days spent in the sun, days spent with him.

The sun! Once, when the door of their prison was opened, a ray of light had hit her face.

She had had to shield her eyes. She wasn't used to light anymore. But she had rejoiced at that ray, had been so convinced that it was the sun, who had come to greet her. It had turned out to be just the light of the guard's lantern, who occasionally brought them something to eat.

But Isolde hadn't rushed ravenously to the food like her fellow prisoner, the old woman. Instead she had sat there and disappointment had overcome her like a tidal wave, had drowned her. And then, she had cried. She hadn't been able to cry for such a long, long time and oddly enough, it had filled her with hope.

She had laughed, suddenly, surprising herself there in the darkness with the sound of her voice.

The old woman's voice had sneered: "You must be going mad." And then she too had laughed, a high-pitched cackle, and without second thought Isolde had joined in her laugh.

Was she going mad? No. But for the first time in a long, long time, she had felt hope.

Then, she spent her days in an alert state.

She sat there, statuesque, listening to all that was going on around her.

The faint scrabble-scrabble of a rat's hasty paws in the silence.

A dry cough from her fellow prisoner. Dirty straw crackling under her fingers. She knew that it had to be of a light colour.

From her days in the sun, she remembered its sun-bathed golden colour.

At least she thought so. She remembered pressing her face in its hard, prickly substance as a child and how she had come home, straw in her hair and her dress. She had been happy.

Oh, how her nursemaid had scolded her! She frowned for a moment, trying to recall her nursemaid's face, but it blurred in her memory.

A sharp, high clanging shook her out of her reverie. Finally! This sound she had been waiting for all that time. The clanging of the keys, as they were turned in the lock.

Instantly, she started screaming. It was such a high-pitched sound in the silence, that her ears felt as if they were falling off. But she didn't stop.

Instead, she sucked in more musty, cold air and started again. A loud scream, a shrill scream.

"Old hag, what is the matter with her?" she heard the guard shout over her noise.

"I have no idea," the old woman cackled madly.

He stepped over to her. "Stop it," the Guard's rough voice commanded out of the darkness.

Isolde, however, started up again, louder than before.

"Ah, I can't stand this!" The guard swore and cursed over the din she was making.

Isolde didn't stop. Then, finally, he did what she had been hoping for:

Strong hands grabbed her and lifted her up from the ground. It was not at all like Tristan's hold. Tristan had always held her as if she could break in the next moment.

This man held her as if she was garbage. This thought made her freeze and she almost stopped screaming. Did he want to get rid of her?

She struggled to get out of his arms and he only tightened his grip on her body. Then, she bit him so hard in the arm, that he let her fall to the ground, swearing.

***

Isolde quickly scrambled to her feet and then she was running, past the murky green doors of other cells, farther, running up on a stone staircase, farther and farther.

The people she passed were just blurring shapes and all that she could hear was the sound of her panicked breaths and her mad running.

Shouts got louder behind her. Isolde's body was weak after such a long time in the dungeon and her legs threatened to give in under her, but she could not stop. She could not stop, had to keep on- running- running. Her feet hit the ground like a drum. Sweat started to gather on her brow, but it was a cold sweat. All of these impressions were mere snapshots, as she hastened farther through the dim stone corridors.

Eventually, she stopped and looked around, darting eyes taking it all in.

Good. She had made it back to the area of the house, that she had entered in, so long ago. Isolde recognised the marble staircase. The sound of yelling and running came closer, so she hid behind a nearby, heavy velvety curtain. Her heart pounded in her throat, and she tried to muffle the sound desperately, convinced, that they could hear it.

But the sounds passed her sensitive ears and slowly, they faded in the distance.

Isolde peeked out behind the curtain and stepped out warily. They were gone.

Dark spots swam in front of her eyes. Her body was shaking. No. She steadied herself on the wall and combed her stringy hair back with a shaking, dirty hand.

She couldn't afford to show weakness. Not yet.

"Isolde!" Someone had called her name. That was not possible.

She spun around, her eyes darting around frantically, the deer caught in the snare of the predator.

"It's me." A figure stepped out of the shadows. To her surprise, she recognised the woman with the long, honey-blonde hair.

"Godiva?" Her voice came out like a croak.

The other woman nodded and her next words were hurried, urgent.

"You got to come with me, Isolde. They are looking for you."

Isolde frowned and tried to make sense of the quick words. Her ears were not used to so many words yet and they hit her like missiles, loud drums in the silence. The very silence's absence, that she had despised so much, suddenly served to further her distress.

But something did not make sense, despite her wet hands and pounding heart…

"Why are you helping me?"

"Later, later." Godiva's blue eyes were nervous and belatedly, Isolde realised, that this was not the right moment to ask such things. But her thoughts felt sluggish and uncontrolled.

She allowed Godiva to drag her through shadowed corridors.

***

They stepped out in the bright sunlight, through a door that Isolde had never seen before.

But this was of little importance to her. The sun bit in her eyes like a venomous snake and she cried out in pain.

"Isolde, hurry," Godiva urged her again.

"I can't," she gasped.

"I know that you are weak, but you have to come with me-"

"No," Isolde choked out. "I can't see."

"Oh. _Oh_." Comprehension tinted Godiva's voice and in a soothing voice, she said:

"I will guide you."

Isolde allowed her to take her by the hands and lead her.

She could hear, that Godiva opened a door and then she almost fell over the threshold in a room. Isolde sniffed carefully. The air was warm in this room.

"You can open your eyes now."

Isolde slowly forced her eyes open.

She was in a dimly-lit room. A flickering candle in the corner provided the only light.

The walls were slimy, coated with green, slick algae. The whole room had a sinister atmosphere.

"Where am I?" Isolde asked dazedly, when her eyes had gotten used to the darkness.

"Where did you bring me?"

Godiva suddenly was everywhere: in front of Isolde, next to her, behind her. Her light eyes glittered with malice.

Isolde backed away some steps.

Godiva cackled at her movement. Isolde recognised the madness then; the same madness like the old woman's.

"You're mad!" she hissed.

"Oooooh," Godiva cooed. "The pretty, naïve girl thinks I am mad!" She sneered.

With a sinking feeling, Isolde watched her pace up and down. She had escaped from the darkness only to land in another hell.

***

"Why can't you let me go?" Her voice sounded weak and she hated it, knew that Godiva would only thrive in her weakness. But her limbs felt sluggish, she was uncoordinated. He thoughts were a jumbled mess. She could not bring herself to form a valid question.

As soon as the pathetic words had made their way over her lips, Godiva laughed again.

She sounded a little less mad, only amused.

"You ask me that," she said. Her pretty features were twisted in a grimace.

"You come here, are the pretty girl and even get to marry Marcellus! But no," she mocked, "no, you throw the marriage to a Roman Lord away to be with a stinking savage from the East!" The last was spat with bitterness. The girl's eyes glittered in the darkness like a predator's, ready to strike.

Isolde felt faint. She reached out to steady herself on the wall, wincing when her fingers sank into the green mass covering the walls.

"You … and him?" she asked disbelievingly.

Godiva threw her hands up. "Yes, me. Me! I was supposed to be his wife! But instead, it was you, you, who didn't even want to be it!"

Isolde shivered in a cold gust of air, that came rushing in through the partly-opened door.

She made a step towards it, but she was too slow, too uncoordinated. Godiva was standing in front of her, her lips twisted to a sneer. Her honey-blonde hair was unruly, her eyes wild.

She was smiling. In her right hand glinted a dagger.

"Who are you?" Isolde choked out and backed away, once again into the little, sticky room.

Godiva paused and fingered the dagger thoughtfully. "My name is Godiva. Well, here my name is Godiva. Before, it was Frida."

"You are a Saxon," Isolde breathed in sudden recognition. "How did you get here?"

Godiva made a dismissive hand gesture.

"The same way you did, obviously. I was to be married to Marcellus because of an alliance, but then he heard of you." She still stood in front of Isolde, arms raised accusingly. The crude dagger shimmered and glinted in the dim, green-tinged air.

Her face was distorted in pain and anger, the long hair seemed almost white in the gloom. Isolde thought, that she was rather like the demons, her father's warriors had cut out of wood and given her to play with. A crazed demon, who had freed itself from its wooden form and now haunted her. Something still did not add up, though.

"Why?" She asked simply.

Godiva seemed bewildered. "Why what?" she sneered.

"Why were you so eager to enter into marriage with Marcellus? What about your home?"

Godiva drew one of her fingers along the dagger and smiled. The smile contrasted strangely with the frigidity of the blue eyes.

"My family didn't care."

Isolde felt a twinge of pity for the crazy creature in front of her, but it soon dissolved, when Godiva threw her head back and laughed once again that laughter of madness.

***

"So, pretty girl," she said conversationally, "then I entered into a realm of shadows. But when you came," she smirked, "I emerged into the sunlight. I knew whom I could exact my revenge on." Isolde screamed in terror and fright, when Godiva suddenly advanced, the dagger raised up high.

"No! Please, don't!" she begged. Her voice cracked. Oh, how piteous she sounded! But there was only a small part of her, which protested against the humiliation, the bigger part wanted to live- live- live! See the sun, taste the fresh flavour of wild berries, listen to the murmuring of a stream and feel the sensation of wind on her skin.

"Please, please," she babbled.

Godiva stopped in her advance, the look on her face pensive.

"Why should I not kill you?"

"Because I didn't do anything!" It was a scream, desperate and loud.

"Ah," Godiva smirked suddenly. Isolde didn't like the glimmer in her eyes.

"I could leave you in here instead. Just imagine, an eternal silence. No sound, no laughter, no sun! Just like the dungeon you escaped from."

Isolde remembered it in vivid horror, the smell, the scent and that overwhelming blackness in the dungeon. The cold, the horror, the near-madness-

"No!" She sprung forward, a last desperate gathering of her meagre strength. Godiva had nearly been at the door, but she turned around, when Isolde lunged at her, the dagger raised high. Things happened in jumbled sequence. Godiva snarled with wide eyes, Isolde screamed, and then there was the horrible sound of a dagger slicing through fabric, skin and bone.

All came to a sudden halt. The two women stared at each other for a long, long time, then one of them fell to the ground, while the other sank on her knees, the movement oddly synchronised.

Godiva stared slowly at the hilt of her own dagger, that was sticking out of her breast, then she lifted her incredulous gaze to Isolde. Isolde's eyes found hers. Her own dagger. Godiva had fallen on her own dagger.

Isolde, too, stared incredulously at the spreading red stain on the other woman's light dress. Her strength was severly diminished, she had to crawl over to the fallen Saxon.

He healing insticts overtook her quickly and she assessed the woman's injuries.

"Don't bother," Godiva panted. Blood was bubbling over her lips.  
"Don't—want to-" Her dying blue eyes found Isolde, who was leaning over her and with badly-trembling lips, she smiled a quivering smile. The madness was gone. All that Isolde could see was overwhelming melancholy and despair.

"There- is – a door." Isolde followed the direction of the other's gaze, true enough, there was a door. "Freedom—waits there." It was a faint whisper.

The Saxon struggled to speak again. Isolde bent down to hear the whisper.

"It's—always—grey—in—Saxony."

Then her whole body seemed to relax. Isolde stared at the broken blue eyes and understood.

Godiva was dead.

* * *

She stumbled through the oak door, Godiva had shown to her. It was, as she had promised, freedom. A way to freedom. It was an old passage through the first wall surrounding Marcellus's estate. Isolde remembered seeing it loom up on the horizon so long, long ago, when she had first arrived here. The way through the hidden, mossy door was overgrown with trees and little bushes. She wondered faintly, for how long Godiva had kept the secret of that hidden door and why she hadn't fled. But she didn't wonder about it for long.

With her strength reserves nearly completely depleted, she had to crawl, like an animal.

Her body quivered with every centimetre she covered, but she knew that she only had to reach the trees. They wouldn't see her there. They would look for her in the estate. No. They wouldn't see her. They wouldn't see her. She repeated it like a mantra. Won't see me, won't see me, won't see me…

When she finally, finally reached the outskirts of the Woods, another thought persistently crept into her head and interrupted the constant stream of the same words in her head, emerging from the mass of grey like a shard of silver:

_I might not make it. Not make it._

"No," she croaked and almost didn't recognise her voice. It was harsh, rough and weak.

She crawled on. After what seemed like an eternity, but were in truth only twenty metres, she conceded finally, that the silver shard might have only reflected reality.

It had started to snow in soft, big flakes. Isolde slumped to the ground and fell on her back.

Dreamily, she watched the snow falling. Such big flakes, soft flakes…like a blanket on her tired body. She was so grateful for it. Someone was showing kindness. A blanket…soft, white. The idea made her smile slowly. Yes. It was good.

Slowly her eyes slipped shut._ Only two minutes, Branwaine. Please._

And before she finally succumbed to the darkness, she saw dark eyes in front of her.

Dark, gentle eyes, often so cold, but not to her. Never to her. Always so gentle…

The illusion made her smile. There was nothing but the gentle touch of falling snow on her face.

_Tristan…_

The frozen smile stayed fixed on her pale features.

* * *

_tbc...so, did you like it?_


	30. The Early Hours of Dawn

* * *

_Thank you so, so much for your truly amazing reviews! 6 reviews ! Wow. Thank you so much, everyone! It makes me incredibly happy to get so much feedback...and I am so glad to hear, that you still like to read about Isolde and her story._

_Thank you, **Rhysel, ILuvOdie****, Queen Amy, Lovebuggy, CarolinaJuliette **(please look for your review reply to my profile) and of course,** Lairiel! **_

_Also a warm "Thank you" for your kind wishes for my birthday. 18 is a nice feeling so far. Definitely. _

_I struggled a lot with this chapter, but I still hope, that you like it. The next one should be up very shortly, hopefully in a few days. Hope you like this one._

_-Sachita (=  
_

* * *

**30. The Early Hours of Dawn**

*****  
**

Awareness returned slowly to her, whilst she was floating in a state of mind, that could only be described as indifference. Nothing mattered anymore. Not even her own name.

It was dark around her, but she didn't care, suspended in the nothingness, holding only onto a small piece of herself, a faint spark of consciousness. Did she have a body? A material form? She couldn't have said. It was of no significance.

A tingle started to wash over her out of the sudden. It wasn't unpleasant at first and did nothing to shake her out of her oblivion.

The tingle grew stronger, however, became impossible to ignore and then transformed into a hot, burning pain, that spread from her spine outwards. A body. She had a body.

And with that new-found knowledge came another tidal wave of that burning pain, intensified a thousand folds. It was feeling like dipping a finger into burning water, icy winds on a wet day.

Whiteness washed over her. The pain pulsated in her body, quickly taking over her, until she consisted of nothing but pain, she was the pain itself. Hot. Burning. Red. White sunlight!

She wrenched her eyes open and screamed.

Soft, reassuring words trickled over agonised mind, reached her ringing ears in broken and jumbled syllables, yet did little to subside that unique heat and fervour of the pain, unlike everything she had ever experienced.

Something sharp and white exploded in her temples. She succumbed back to darkness.

***

Bright light assaulted her eyes, when she opened them the next time. Had it been hours? Mere Minutes? She couldn't have said. Moaning, she turned her head away from the bright light.

A hand shaded her eyes. Its texture was rough, the skin felt dry and chapped.

Isolde tried to form words, but all that came out of her mouth was a harsh, choked sound. She could taste the tangy flavour of blood on her chapped lips.

The hand left her eyes gradually and she stared uncomprehendingly into wide, deep rivers, a jagged mountain scenery. The face of an old woman.

Eyes, astonishingly clear and wide laughed at her somewhere in between the deep river-like creases and the wrinkled forehead. Her open mouth revealed that she was toothless.

A large tattoo covered nearly half of her face, but its intricate design was lost due to the wrinkles. She grinned even wider, nodding her head upon recognising Isolde's dazed scrutiny.

Straggly locks of dirty, grey hair fell into her face and Isolde stared at her, still puzzled. Finally the old woman croaked something, which did not make sense to Isolde. The old woman shook her head and disappeared out of Isolde's vision.

She did not have the strength to turn her head.

After that, she must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing she remembered was that she opened her eyes only to stare into the flickering light of a torch on a dark wall.

The old woman hustled and bustled somewhere in the background. Isolde could see her without disturbing the position of her head.

A pleased sound- she had noticed Isolde to be awake. Her whole face swam back into vision again. She was smiling and Isolde thought absentmindedly, that it was probably her usual expression.

Then she turned and bellowed something harsh out into the night.

***

Seconds later, another face came into view. A woman, a young woman. Flaxen-haired.

Where had she seen her before? Unclear memories of woods. A sunny day.

Sudden recognition flared up in her. Lanay, the Woad woman, an avid follower of Crevan!

Panic came over her for a moment, but then she remembered, that Crevan was dead.

Lanay nodded to her, her expression cold.

"Maergilh," she nodded to the old woman, "is our healer. You are with us."

Isolde nodded slowly and feeling of immense gratefulness flooded her. She was burning with fever, her body was feeling gritty and horrible, but she was alive. Alive.

She had made it.

"Woads?" she croaked and almost didn't recognise her own voice. It sounded weak and scratchy.

Lanay scowled. "Believe me, I don't want to have you here any more than you want to be here," she hissed coldly. "The Gauls have never been real friends."

Her tone of voice angered Maergilh. She shooed Lanay out and then turned to Isolde, giving her a smile. She folded her hands and put her head atop them. An universal sign for sleeping.

And she did just that.

* * *

Her recovery was slow, hesitant. Often she would become angered at herself and would try to run, only to fall to the ground, panting, fingers digging into the wet soil.

After a particularly hard fall, she just stayed where she was. Hot, burning tears of frustration trailed down her cheeks and she wiped them away with a frustrated grunt.

Footsteps sounded. She pressed her dirty cheek into the mud.

"Isolde…" Maergilh.

"No," she growled harshly in Latin and it made her almost content to hear Maergilh's horrified gasp. The old woman had been trying to teach the Woad Language to her for weeks now. She had made some process, but now she spoke in Latin, just to anger her.

The footsteps faded again. Good.

She figured that someone would come to her soon again, seeing that she was lying on the ground in front of the leaf and loam-made homes of her hosts.

But for now, she would stay here. She dug her fingers deeper into the mud, feeling how a certain sense of despair overtook her. Her hearing had not been the same since her near-death, there in the snow by Marcellus's estate.

"Some part of your ears was taken by the snow ghost, dear," Maergilh had said, or at least that was what Isolde believed, she might have said.

Snow ghost- surely not! It was just the cold, frostbite….Bitterness rose up in her again.  
She clenched her teeth to stop the burning of her eyes and remembered these rocks, nearly entirely submerged in a grey, raging sea. She had seen them whilst on her way to Marcellus. She had wondered what it would feel like to be such a rock.

Numbness had dominated her wholly these days, blankness had kept her alive.

She tried to get that feeling back, but somehow, she didn't succeed. Instead there was still the feverish need to do _something_ : get up, run, scream, cry…anything.

She opted for crying, as his eyes came back to haunt her again. His eyes, his voice, his arms, his smile…A harsh sob made its way over her lips.

Tristan.

***

"Child?" Merlin. He had visited her once, when she had still been floating in that strange limbo of varying darkness and light. Her memories of his last visit were rather hazy.

"Merlin." Her voice sounded cool, and she hoped that he didn't hear it.

"Get up," he said firmly and nudged her ribs with something hard.

"I can't…" she mumbled.

"Yes, you can!" He sounded severe. "Get up. You can't afford to be weak. New challenges are waiting to be met."

Damn Merlin and his cryptic words. Isolde sighed and sat up, her weak body protesting as she did so.

And there he was, Merlin, just like she remembered him. The hair, the paint and those intense eyes, that could still make her tremble.

"You have changed, Isolde," he told her gravely, his voice low.

"In what way?" Isolde asked, somewhat afraid of the answer.

Merlin sighed and sat down next to her in the mud, seemingly uncaring of how he'd look afterwards.

"This spring to your step is gone. There is no fire of liveliness in your eyes anymore."

He tilted her chin up and studied her face. "All I see now….is despair, cynicism…and a deep sadness."

Cynicism? Isolde thought about it. Now that he had said it…it made sense.

"You miss him," Merlin said, not missing a beat.

Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes again. She nodded, not looking up.

Merlin got up and stood in front of her. She had to tilt her head back to look at him.

"You may never go back," he growled suddenly, the light atmosphere gone.

"This Roman nearly killed you, and the first place where he'll be looking for you, is the fort. I already nearly lost dear Aoibhe's granddaughter once, I won't let it happen to her again."

Defiance and anger made her get up as quick as her body would allow it.  
"I am not a prisoner, Merlin!" she shouted furiously. "I won't be locked up in this village for eternity!"

Curious faces appeared behind the trees and in the openings of the huts.

As angered as she was Isolde had completely missed the pleased smile, that had hushed over Merlin's face at her defiance.

"Well, you may accompany the warriors to skirmishes, but you may only appear when the fight is over. We have a great need of healers."

Oddly defeated, she nodded. She didn't have the strength for a battle of wills with Merlin.

The mysterious druid nodded to her and turned away.

***

"Wait!" Isolde cried.

He turned around. "Yes?"

"Why did Tristan save me then and bring me to you?"

Something, that could only be described as a mixture of bewilderment and sudden realisation hushed over Merlin's impassive features.

"Dear child," he said slowly. "Tristan was not there."

He turned away again and Isolde almost thought, that he was going to leave her like that.

"However," he said mysteriously, before disappearing for good, "thing aren't always as they seem to be."

Isolde stared after him, more puzzled than ever. Then she shook her hair out of her tight bun and sighed. Merlin was right after all.

She couldn't go on like this forever. She had to do something for her own good.

Suddenly determined, she walked over to the hut, that had been her home for these last few weeks. She would show them, that she was able to leave.

She would show them, that she was strong. And then she would be able to see Tristan again.

* * *

"Isolde," Maerghil said one morning. Isolde looked up from her work on a peculiar green paste, that alleviated the pain of burns. She was nearly sure, that Maerghil had had to repeat her name several times. Shame crawled over her. Maybe it would be better, if she stayed here anyway. What would Tristan do with someone like her? Someone you have to repeat your words to, so she can hear you? No, she decided, he wouldn't want me.

"Isolde."

"Yes?" She asked politely.

"There is someone I'd like to introduce you too," Maerghil told her.

Isolde lifted her eyes and looked right into the eyes of a tall young man standing behind her constant companion.

She gasped, not because of the man….but because of the…eyes.

Amber eyes, so much like him.

"Who are you?" she hissed sharply.

The Woad man inclined his head and stepped forward.

His voice was deep and smooth, his demeanour earnest.

"I am called Áedh," he said easily.

"Isolde," she said tersely. His behaviour reminded her too much of Lancelot for her to trust that man, he who owned the stolen eyes.

"I know that," he said in apparent amusement, something insolent dancing in his eyes.

"I am the one, who rescued you after all, my beautiful Lady." He bowed.

Isolde bit her lip in anger. That man was really like Lancelot. A suave, charming womaniser and she owed him her life. An inconvenient position indeed.

"Thank you," she mumbled tartly.

"Ahhh, you're welcome" he smiled winningly, showing surprisingly well-cared-for teeth. Normally yellowed teeth or no teeth were usual.

Now upon a closer look, Isolde could see that his eyes were not at all like Tristan's. They had grey and green flecks in them.

Áedh inched closer, and without forewarning, he wanted to press a kiss on her hand.

With a disgusted snarl, the best one she had from Tristan, Isolde backed away.

"Your eyes are like shallow pools of mire," she told the Woad man harshly. He looked confused and a bit offended, but Isolde had enough.

In fervent fury , she disappeared between the spring-green trees, until she reached a small clearing. In vivid anger, she sat down in the sun-flooded moss.

How dare he! How dare Merlin try and pair her off with that disgusting, charm-oozing womaniser! Furious beyond words, she returned to the village with heavy steps.

She would have to get out of her soon, or else she might become quickly like the moss under her feet: weak, compliant and soft like a newly-born bird.

* * *

_tbc....so, what do you think?_

* * *


	31. Morning Hues

_Wow. Thank you again for your great reviews,** Lairiel**, **CarolinaJuliette** ( see profile for review reply (=) and **Rhysel! **I am so happy that you are all still here and are still enjoying._

_This chapter is dedicated to **ILuvOdie**. A birthday present so to say. **Happy 18th birthday**, **ILuvOdie!** Have a great day!!! _

_Now I only hope that I got the time difference right and this is updated on the 15th March...  
_

_I got a bit carried away with this. I didn't even intend to write it that way, but Isolde and Tristan wanted it, so I had no choice...(= I hope you all like it._

_-Sachita^^  
_

* * *

**31. Morning Hues**

*****  
**

Her world was green, full of shifting shadows and cool, flat stones.

It was a wild life, but not a particularly free one.

They were constantly hiding: from the Romans, other hostile tribes and the merciless Saxons, who occasionally raided unprotected coast villages and also ever-so-often advanced in their sun-streaked green realm.

A life full of hardship and pain, meagre meals and the harsh knowledge, that they were outlaws in their own land.

Yet hope was strong among the Woads. It was in the loving touch of mothers upon their babes' faces, the silent pride of fathers as they watched their sons succeed in their first hunt and in each new sunrise, that they lived to see.

Isolde, however, felt with each passsing day more and more like a real prisoner.

It was not really apparent, but Isolde saw at the wary gazes of the warriors and the concerned eyes of Maergilh, that she was being watched.

Whenever there was a skirmish and she accompanied the shifting blue shadows on their hunt, someone was always hovering next to her.

Sometimes she turned around only to find a huge Woad warrior trying to look random and inconspicuous, what, of course, failed quite spectacularly.

Thus she didn't even try to escape.

Instead she tried to learn as much as possible from the Woads' knowledge of herbs and plants as she could, trying to quench the burning long for _him _with talks of rosemary and the scent of peppermint.

Of course it was to no avail.

His amber eyes haunted her. She often thought to catch a fleeting look of him, as he rode through the trees, intent on finding her. His scent of leather and moss assaulted her, whenever she didn't expect it. The gentle touch of his rough, calloused hands- oh, how she missed it! When she closed her eyes, she could _feel_ him, she could _hear_ him, yes, even _see_ him.

Whenever she fleetingly glimpsed that rider through the trees, she started to run, until she found herself on yet another sunny clearing with no sign of him, out of breath and overwhelmed with a surge of stinging disappointment, that drove tears in her eyes and rendered her breathless.

"Spring greetings, beautiful." Áedh's smooth voice cut into her musings.

"Áedh," she said tartly, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

He ignored her tone of voice and said cheerfully: "How are you on this pleasant day?"

"Now that you have come along…" She trailed off.

Áedh raised his dark eyebrows in mock shock.

"When are you finally going to be mine?" he asked teasingly.

"Never and you know it!" she shot back and they both laughed.

Isolde's relationship with Áedh was much like a game, they both played avidly: mock insults thrown forward with underlying tension beneath. The rules were very simple: Don't slip up and don't ever let the opponent see your true feelings.

As for Isolde, she felt that Áedh was a nusiance, though at the same time a welcome one.

She still had not quite forgiven him for the stolen eyes, but still, at least he talked to her.

This was not the case with the rest of the Woads, as most of them treated her with suspicion or just blatantly ignored her, disregarding that she was of Merlin's blood.

She tried not to care too much about it, but as the days passed and the grey colour made way for the fresher, greener spring hues, loneliness began to gnaw at her.

***

Her nights passed far too soon these days, she noted detached when she opened her eyes to greet yet another new day. Her nights. That was when she was with him, could fly like a hawk and follow him on his dangerous missions to wherever he went.

She groaned and painstakingly sat up. She hadn't healed completely yet.

The first hesitant rose fingers of dawn already stroked the blue pale horizon, as she finished her daily washing.

She stretched and stared to the red morning sun. Mists gathered around the trees and made the woods seem like a place out of a myth, an otherworldly place, where pixies and faeries gathered around to greet each new day.

"You are aware that getting up so early every day is hazardous for your well-being, I trust?"  
Áedh was perched on a wide branch of one of the sturdy trees, directly over her head.

Startled, Isolde jumped, nearly letting out a scream. She hadn't heard him come.

Well, she thought sardonically, this had to be blamed on her worsened hearing.

"Áedh!" she yelled indignantly.

"What is the matter?" With a flirtatious grin he swung down from the tree in a fluent manner.

"The Lady calls, her knight comes."  
Suddenly serious, Isolde looked away. The last sentence, though intended as a joke, cut straight to her very soul.

Oblivious, Áedh stepped closer. "You still have that whistle," he remarked off-handedly, gingerly fingering the thin chain with the clay pipe around her neck.

She pushed his hand away. "'Tis no business of yours."

"Oh," he retorted easily, "it is, I'd like to believe. It was after all this whistle, which called me to your aid."

Isolde stared at him incredulously. "I did not blow in it," she said slowly.

Confusion hushed over Áedh's features like a lightning strike.

"You did," he stated as slowly.

"No!" Isolde said firmly. "I did not."

"Yes, you did."

"No." Isolde thought for a moment, then she grabbed the whistle, uncaring whom she might wake up and blew in it.

"What does it remind you of?" she asked, excitement washing over her.

Áedh thought for a moment, then he grimaced. "A hawk, I suppose."

A wide grin started to spread over Isolde's face.

"That is right."

She skipped away, humming a quiet melody, whilst Áedh stared after her, shaking his head in bewilderment.

After that day, life was easier. The days passed in something resembling unabashed joy.

Tristan, her Tristan was watching over her. Or at least his hawk was.

Either way, Isolde felt overjoyed at the prospect of a life sign from the man, whom she loved.

It was as if the birds sang that much lovelier, as if the sun was that much brighter, as if the moss was that much softer.

She would see him again.

_Tristan._

***

* * *

***

The scorching red and golden flames formed a terrible contrast in all their beauty against the indigo evening sky.

The smoke drove tears in his eyes and he wiped his eyes with a gloved fist, a scowl appearing on his face. Of course it was the smoke, that had produced this effect.

A proud, reclusive knight like him, one of Arthur's best, wouldn't cry at a burning estate. A barbaric, unfeeling man like him wouldn't cry even as his fists clenched around the reins.

An impassive shadow like him wouldn't cry…at the death of the one he loved.

**_No._**

_She was dead._

There was no anger.

Only the sharp, stinging pain of the smoke.

Well. Who should be angered at?

There was no one left to be angered at.

All dead.

_She was dead._

And all that was left for him was the pain of the smoke in his eyes.

He sat there for hours. Completely motionless, statuesque.

He didn't even think of following the Saxons, didn't even think of trying to catch up with their raiding party…that last thought at least provoked a reaction from him.

He had to…catch them….kill them…watch the look in their eyes as they were struck down by his sword. Black, bleak rage took over his mind. He snarled, showing his teeth.

He would laugh at their deaths. There would be no mercy for them, for they had….they had killed her! He would kill them. Slowly.

A horrible realisation made him start in the saddle. He nearly slid off the horse, his hands unfeeling as the reins slipped from his fingers.

A dull ache started to pound somewhere in his body and he sucked in a sharp breath, if only to supply his body with oxygen than anything else-

He _couldn't_ catch up with them. They were long gone. He had waited for too long.

He had failed her. He, who never failed at getting his revenge, had failed her.

The Roman had won, in the end. Even in death, he had managed to take everything away from him. Even his rage evaporated with no one to turn it on and it was that rage, he had at least always been able to depend on. But there was nothing. Not event the rage.

He uttered a stricken gasp, an invisible crossbow digging in his side.

She was gone.

Report- - He had to report to - Arthur.

He clung to that automatic realisation and whirled the anxiously-neighing Byaczt around, mud flying high up in the air as he cantered back to the fort.

Soon, the cold darkness swallowed the lonely rider.

***

Incidentally, Dagonet was tending to his horse, when the scout came back.

Tristan was a quiet person, but he was not a ghost, and it was ironic in a dark, hopeless way that out of all things it should be the lack of sound which alerted the gentle giant.

He sought the other knight in the dim light of the stables and found his slim frame next to his unbridled, unsaddled horse. His position- head leaned against the wall and shoulders braced was an unnatural one. It was as if he had been frozen whilst in motion.

He didn't move at all. It was as if he had been transformed to stone.

A feeling of unease and eeriness crawled up in Dagonet.

"Tristan?" he called softly.

There was no reaction.

Then Tristan lifted his head and looked at him. It was like looking in a mummy's or a vampire's face and shocked, Dagonet stepped back.

The scout's eyes seemed red in the dim light, his skin was like the colour of a stone on a cloudy day and his whole face was frozen like a lake in winter.

Tristan didn't show many feelings on a normal day, but this was different.

Slowly, Dagonet approached, feeling as if he was trying to stop an impending rockfall with nothing but his hands.

"Tristan…" he said again.

This time the scout's head snapped up and it was in that moment, when Dagonet understood that Tristan hadn't even been aware of him before. That in itself was a cause for deep worry for Tristan was _always_ alert.

"Dagonet," Tristan said in a flat, dead voice.

"What happened?" Dagonet asked, searching the amber eyes. He stretched his hand out as if to soothe a wild creature.

"Found traces of Saxons. Explanation at the briefing."

Tristan pushed past him with that brief explanation and walked out of the stables, his steps heavy.

Saxons? Dagonet stared after the elusive scout in deeply-worried confusion.

Saxons! Maybe he was hurt. The damned man possessed a certain talent for acquiring and hiding injuries.

He ran to catch up with Tristan, who, thankfully hadn't disappeared into the night but rather had taken the way to their Great Hall.

"Tristan!" He grabbed the scout's elbow.

Tristan didn't seem surprised, not even irritated, as he freed himself from Dagonet's grip.

If anything, that worried the other even more.

"Are you hurt?" Dagonet quickly asked.

Another look from the dead eyes. Then, Tristan did something very surprising. He laughed, a bitter, short sound. "No."

Dagonet followed him into the Great Hall.

Everyone was already assembled and Dagoent looked around with silent unease, as he took his place next to Bors.

Giving Bors a distracted nod, he focused his attention again on Tristan.

"Saxons," the scout was saying.

Arthur looked up sharply and Dagonet mentally challenged him to really look at his scout, take a good, hard look and see that all was not well.

And Arthur wouldn't have been Arthur if he wouldn't let himself be guided by his incredible compassion and empathy and so Dagonet breathed a quiet sigh of relief, when Arthur asked:

"Tristan, what happened out there?" _To you_, was the unspoken implication.

Even Kai's head, who was the most thick-headed of them when it came to being empathetic, turned to look at Tristan.

Dagonet winced again. This was not good. Tristan didn't like being dragged out in the light like that. He knew that.

"They destroyed the estate of that Roman. Marcellus Aurelius."

Now Tristan was trying hard to sound indifferent, but again, he didn't succeed in fooling Dagonet, didn't succeed in fooling Arthur.

And what that meant….Dagonet gasped as the full implication of Tristan's words sank in.

She had been there.

Compassionate, brave…

"Isolde," he said loudly in the deafening silence.

* * *

_tbc...so, what do you think?_


	32. A New Day

_Thank you so much, once again, for your awesome reviews! I am discovering the advantages of the word "awesome_"_ at the moment_ (= _Thank you very much, **Rhysel**, **Lairiel** and of course **ILuvOdie**!_

_This chapter was so much fun to write. I look forward to hearing what you think of it._

_-Sachita (=  
_

_Disclaimer : The movie King Arthur is owned by Jerry Bruckheimer. No copyright infringement intended._

* * *

**31. A New Day**

*****  
**

It was a normal mission, nothing out of the ordinary. They had ridden out to another fort, accompanying Arthur, who had a briefing there with some of the other Roman Centurios.

Tristan had been indifferent, when they had left the fort, which was much bigger than theirs, while the others had voiced their relief at "escaping from that duck coop, with so many Romans bustling about", as Bedivere had put it.

But then again, Tristan felt indifferent about almost everything these days. She was gone. There was no reason for sentiments of any kind. He only lived for the brief moments of dark rage in battle now, the ones when his blade sung, as more and more enemies fell along his way. These were the moments, when he felt _something_, even if it was only a pale echo of what his rage had been like in former times. And so he tried, and tried, to get that rage back. He tried it almost desperately. He had always been able to rely on the rage. It had been one of the few constants in his ever-changing life. It had kept him sane, as ironic as that probably sounded. And now even the rage was gone. As was she. She was _gone_.

The others kept a respectful distance of him. Again, he didn't care. He didn't care about Galahad's snide comments either. Let the pup talk. On good days he ignored him, on bad ones he just turned his back on him.

They had been on the way back to their post, when the Woads had attacked.

He had slashed through their rows. The battle had been over quickly. It had been a scouting party, nothing big. Still, the blue ghosts had attacked. Foolish of them.

***

A movement near the Woods caught his eye. He dismounted in a fluid motion and silent like a ghost, he went to take a look.

It was a Woad, her dark hair hung loosely down her back. She was bent over another Woad, who lay there with grievous injuries. A Woad healer?

He frowned. Normally they didn't come out immediately after a battle had taken place. And they certainly didn't waste their energy on hopeless cases.

She hadn't noticed him yet. He stepped closer and held his blade to her throat.

"Get up," he growled coldly.

Slowly, she rose. Her hair obscured her face, but when she shook her head defiantly, it revealed her face. Her face.

A nasty shock ran through him. She was covered in a thick layer of that disgusting Woad paint, yes, but her eyes and her hair, coupled with that stupid determination to save anyone who still breathed. No. _No._ He quickly withdrew the blade.

"Isolde?" he asked slowly and he almost didn't recognise his voice. It sounded tentative, surprised. Tristan rarely allowed that what he felt to creep in his voice.

Tears sprang to her emerald eyes. His Isolde. She was alive… The weight of this revelation rendered him speech- and breathless for a long moment. He struggled to maintain his façade of impassiveness.

She brought her hands to her mouth, obviously trying to stifle sobs.

A frown crossed his face. He didn't want her to cry.

"Tristan," she breathed. "Oh, Tristan!" With that, she flung herself into his arms. He staggered momentarily under her sudden weight, then held her close, not caring what the others thought.

Her tears soaked his garments. He couldn't have cared less. However, after a while, he disentangled himself gently from her vice-like grip and held her at arm's length.

Her tears had left light traces on her face. He carefully wiped the side of her face, smearing blue paint all over his hand and arm.

"You'll get all blue like me," Isolde teased weakly. A jest. How he had missed those.

***

"Tristan?" Arthur's questioning voice.

"Arthur," he said evenly. Isolde seemed almost afraid, she was half-hiding behind him.

He stepped aside to reveal her.

"What do you want with that Woad?" Lancelot sounded puzzled.

Then Percival gasped. "Isolde?" he questioned, surprise audibly in his voice.

His Lady nodded faintly.

"How- I mean- how…?" Galahad didn't finish his sentence, but it was clear what he meant.

Isolde shrugged weakly. "It's a long story." She sounded timid, shy even.

Tristan wondered, angered, what these bastards had done to her to reduce her to such a shadow of her former vibrant self. Deep self-loathing came over him for a second, when he thought that he was probably to blame for a part of it, too.

"Well, as glad as we all are to have Isolde with us again, we should go," Arthur commented, his thoughts clear to all of them: He feared another attack.

"Tristan, if you would ride ahead."

Tristan hesitated, a rare occasion for the firm scout and for once, they could all guess what he was thinking.

"She can ride with me," Dagonet offered.

Tristan eyed him sharply, amber eyes conveying a clear message. Dagonet nodded.

The scout gave his Lady a small nudge. She half-turned to him, terror in her eyes.

That made all of them hiss in anger at the bastards who had done this to her.

Finally, she let go of Tristan's hand and walked haltingly over to Dagonet, who lifted her easily up in front of him.

Tristan had watched the scene stiffly, but then, quicker than a ghost, he had mounted his horse and spurred it into canter. Soon he was gone.

They all stole looks at Isolde, who was sitting in front of Dagonet. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the ground. She did not look up once.

Finally Dagonet cleared his throat and his deep voice reverberated in his chest:

"You are amongst friends, Isolde."  
Isolde's answer was quiet and they all had to strain their ears to hear her over the roaring wind: "I know. It's just…" Her eyes stared into a distant past.

"I am not used anymore to being treated kindly by people who have no agenda," she finally said flatly. That made all of them sit up straighter in the saddle.  
"What did they do to you?" Percival hissed murderously.

"A long story." They all understood that she wasn't going to say more, so they fell back into silence. Isolde's eyes remained dull, riveted to the countryside.

But when Tristan rode up again, they lit up and it would have taken a fool not to realise whom her heart belonged to.

Tristan rode close to Dagonet, and without a word, the giant handed her over. She was as light as a feather. It was not an easy feat to move her, but Tristan managed. He held her tightly, his large hands oddly careful, as if he feared to break her.

She shivered and he quickly tightened his grip on her slim frame.

Dagonet's breath caught for a moment, as he looked over to the scout, whose gaze was riveted to the woman in his arms. The amber eyes were so full of everything, that Dagonet quickly looked away, almost embarrassed. Tristan never shared his feelings and to see him so emotive was nearly awkward.

* * *

Isolde was glad, that the rest of the journey passed in uncomfortable, yet merciful silence.

Upon arriving in the fort, she stayed where she was. Byaczt whinnied anxiously.

Tristan dismounted and looked up to Isolde. He held out his hand to her.

She stared down at him silently. Odd hesitancy gripped her in waves. If she didn't dismount…if she didn't enter this realm again…if she didn't face that odd memory mix of heart-break and joy she had experienced the last time here…._if_ she just stayed on the horse…if she didn't dismount...

"Come," Tristan said, and his voice was so full of promise for peaceful summers and sunlight, that she finally took his hand.

***

He led her to the familiar scent of his chambers. Her eyes were closed.

"Open your eyes." His accent tinged the words and she enjoyed hearing it.

"Why won't you open your eyes? Look at me!"

Impatience. This was new. Tristan was never impatient. But then again, it had been a year of being apart. A lot of things could happen in a year.

Eventually she opened her eyes and there he was, directly in front of her, everything and more that he couldn't say clearly written in his face.

Tears sprang again to her eyes, but she refused to shed them.

Angrily, she reprimanded herself. Why did she want to cry now? Why didn't the burning in her eyes disappear? He was here, her Tristan, her sunshine, her rain, her deep river of promises. And he wouldn't leave her again. Or, would he?

"Tristan?" she asked quietly, feeling foolish. He had been watching her intently and just gave a little, almost jerky nod at her question.

"You won't leave me again, will you?" The question sounded horrifyingly, disgustingly weak even to her own ears.

As if to confirm her doubts, he made a move as if he wanted to go to the door, half turning away from her.

"Tristan!" she cried, sudden fear crashing over her. She couldn't breathe.

He turned around quickly upon hearing her tone of voice and she was taken aback by the expression on his face. It was one of sadness, melancholy…fear? Fear? Tristan was never afraid. She sighed. It was hopeless.

"I thought I had lost you," he said suddenly hoarsely, crossing the remaining space between them quickly.

As if he had burned himself, he suddenly stopped, dark eyes darting about. He seemed insecure, a disposition Tristan had never been able to deal with well.

He ran his tongue over his lower lip.

Then, for a long, long moment they just looked at each other. It was not a peaceful silence, neither was it a tender one full of unspoken implications, it was just a silence between two people who are not quite sure what to do…what to say.

Isolde finally quietly exhaled and sat down on the narrow bed, leaning against the white-washed wall. He still stood there in the dusty silence, looking more and more like a frozen statue as the minutes ticked by.

Eventually, when Isolde just wanted to close her eyes in desperate resignation, he sat down next to her and the narrow cot creaked under their combined weight.

Another of his unnerving stares. In earlier times, Isolde might have said something, but now she just was too tired. Too tired to protest, too weary to do anything but sit there and respond to his look with a painful one of her own.

***

"Why didn't you come?" The question was almost a growl. Isolde was not surprised. She knew, that he had only one outlet for insecurity and the like. It was his dark anger, that had always served as his shield. So she refused to be intimidated by the dark fire glowing in his eyes. He reminded her of a wolf, sitting there with his smoldering glare, but at the same time, if he was a wolf, she would never mind being his prey.

"I couldn't," she explained softly.

A frown crossed Tristan's face. Some of the deep anger lines disappeared.

"You have changed," he said lowly.

"I know," Isolde replied tartly. "I have been told before."  
Tristan ignored her reply. "Then who prevented you from leaving the Woads?" he asked darkly.

"Merlin," Isolde said simply. His reaction was almost instantenous, he was halfway to the door until she had a chance to stop him.

"Please…" she mumbled softly. He stilled abruptly in his movements and looked at her hand upon his arm.

Carefully, Isolde traced the outline of his face.

Tristan shuddered under her tender touch, then he let out a soft sigh and closed his eyes.

"I missed you." It was a quiet mumble and she would have missed it, if she hadn't stood so close to him.

"I know," Isolde replied as she stroked his face with her cool hand. "I missed you as well."

No other words were needed, as finally, _finally_, this long, suffocating silence came to an end.

***

Isolde removed Tristan's riding cape and nimbly took off layer and layer of his light armour.

He stood there with closed eyes and let her, until he was only clad in his breeches.

A red, violent scar stood out in the mass of scars, that was his torso.

Isolde had always thought of his body as a landscape of red paths, interwoven and unraveled, each of them telling a story of pain and a life of hardship. The people he'd met, the places he'd been, the battles he'd fought: his scars told her all about it.

She traced the new red line, that travelled from his shoulder to his chest.

"When did you get it?" she breathed.

"About a month ago," he said slowly. "Erec died in the battle we fought that day."  
Isolde almost recoiled in horror. "Erec is dead?"

Tristan nodded grimly. "Him, Kay and Gaheris," he added severely.

With sadness in her heart, Isolde walked over to the cot and sat down. Gaheris, Gawain's other remaining brother and Erec, who had trusted her enough to confide in her about his betrothed, who had died in a Saxon raid. And then Kay, the clumsy, but amicable Kay.

Death was ever present among the Sarmatian knights and she shivered unconsciously.

"A great blow," she said softly.

"Aye," Tristan agreed, sinking down next to her on the cot once again.  
"But 'tis a small wonder in my eyes. This island is like a carnivorous monster, sooner or later it will have devoured us all."

"Never you!" Isolde cried, some of her old passion returning to her, as horror gripped her in waves. "I won't allow it."  
He just looked at her unreadably. His eyes held a calm, that was unnerving to her in this context.

"Isolde…" he said quietly.

She looked away, away from the harsh truth in his eyes that made her want to cry, and tried to calm down.

Silence spread again, but this time it was not an awkward one.

***

"What did he do to you?" Tristan then asked.

It was not a harsh question, but his anger was clear.

Isolde shivered unconsciously. She remembered the cold, the darkness, the mad laughter of the old woman and his hands…upon her body…

Her heart pounded suddenly, as she remembered his greedy eyes, like a snake's cruel, cold gaze…His disgust so clearly written in his face…her defiance…

"He-" she choked and buried her face in her hands, disgusted with herself for her weakness.

Tristan didn't say a word, but he slowly removed her hands and kissed her tear-streaked face carefully. She relished in the warm touch of his lips at first, then she abruptly pulled away, as she remembered the shame, she had experienced there, down in the cold of the dungeon.

"I was so ashamed," she whispered and she didn't look up, half-expecting to see a look of disgust written on his features.

But there was only silence, and so, after long minutes had passed, she warily looked up.

His face was frozen in an expression of anger and his fists were clenched at his sides.

The anger was almost visible in the air around him, in the way faint trembles ran through his body and in the darkness in his eyes.

Without a word, he looked over to her, and she, who had thought that the disgusted look would finally appear in this very moment, was surprised, when he simply crushed her against his chest and held her so tightly, that she was almost suffocated.

"I should have killed that Roman when I had the chance," he growled darkly, his words almost incoherent due to the harsh accent, that distorted his quick words.  
"So you are not ashamed of me?" Isolde asked softly, clinging to him, while tears pricked her eyes.

"No!" Harsh surprise resonated in his voice. "Never think that."

Isolde stared up at him. His amber eyes held truth and a deep sadness, as he gazed down at her silently.

"I am sorry that I didn't kill him earlier," he muttered, his anger a harsh contrast to the look in his eyes.

"You should work on that violent edge of yours," Isolde mumbled weakly in a faint attempt at humour.

Tristan didn't seem to recognise the humour in her voice.

"I don't see why I should," he said tartly.

"I merely jested, Sir Knight."

"You're the only one who does that. Forgive me my surprise," he said flatly, the anger still too overwhelming.

"'Tis a shame," Isolde continued, some of her old spirit creeping back into her voice.

"I daresay, the old women down at the market would love to get a chance at taking a swipe at you, even if it's only a verbal one."

Tristan snorted. "Sure they would," he replied wryly. The underlying tension was still pulsating through the room, but finally, it slowly abated.

"I would support them," Isolde continued their little game.

This time she was treated with one of his rare, infamous smirks.

"Galahad surely would take delight in this new movement," he commented slyly.

"I would never allow him to take part," she said seriously.

He laughed lowly and tugged them down in a lying position on the bed.

***

Outside, night slowly but surely fell and darkened the room.

He surprised her suddenly by simply putting his head on her chest. He appeared to be listening avidly. Surprised, she stared at him.

A question on her lips, she abruptly froze in understanding.

Her heartbeat. He was listening to her heartbeat.

"Tristan.." she sighed shakily. Fresh, violent tears sprang unbidden to her eyes and coursed down her cheeks. Where would this all end? They were like two pieces of driftwood, forever condemned to be tossed around by a merciless sea, sometimes farther apart, sometimes so close that there was no telling one from the other, but always filled with an intense yearning for the other. And there was no land in sight.

Numbly, she stroked his dark hair, her fingers getting entangled in the thick, belligerent strands.

The darkness made it easier to be weak, for both of them. He exhaled, an unsteady sound, and Isolde wondered, if his reflections had been along the same lines as hers.

But there was no one to judge them, there in the darkness.

It didn't matter that she was covered in the blue paint of another people, that his breath still came in shaky gasps that were so unlike Tristan, it didn't matter, that just beyond the walls of this safe haven there was a cruel world, just waiting to tear them into pieces.

Not even their own names mattered.

All that mattered were two pieces of driftwood, tightly pressed together, as their deadened branches and flawed structures became tightly entangled once again, the sun mercilessly beating down on them while they drifted on into blue endlessness.

* * *

_tbc...so, what do you think?_


	33. The Loud Silence

_Hi again! First of all, thank you for your kind reviews! Thank you, **Rhysel**, **CarolinaJuliette** and **Lairiel**! 100 reviews. Wow. I can't believe it. It's so wonderful! "Tausend Dank"- Thank you so much!_

_This chapter is mostly a bridge chapter. It clears some things up. Still, I hope that you like it. I struggled a lot with it, however, I hope that this struggle is not visible in the chapter. The next one will hopefully be easier to write. (=_

_-Sachita :D  
_

* * *

**33. The Loud Silence **

*****  
**

She awoke slowly after a good night's sleep. For the first time in nearly a year, she had been able to sleep without waking drenched in sweat, released from the darkest corners of her mind where her nightmares lurked, waiting for her. They were always the same, his hands upon her body, his yellowed teeth grinning at her, then darkness, a never-ending darkness, only interrupted by a mad, shrill laughter.

But this night had been nightmare-free and she knew whom she had to thank for it.

With a slight smile on her face, she looked over to Tristan, who was still breathing deeply and regularly, his eyes closed in sleep. This was rare and unusual, for he was an early riser, often awake before the first light of dawn.

He looked exhausted. In the pale light of pre-dawn his face was tinged grey and dark circles under his eyes spoke of long days spent working himself to the bone until it was just plain determination, that kept him on his feet.

A cold feeling of dread rose up in her, as she gazed about the room, that was slowly illuminated by the morning. Couldn't it stay night forever? She remembered being held by him in the darkest hours of the night, but the feeling was gone now, lost in the morning light.

How could she go out there and face the knights, when she still felt _his_ greedy hands on her body, ravaging her mind and plundering her whole being?

And how could she go out there and face them, when she still kept the truth about her involvement in the great battle with the Woads from them?

Knowing how much they loathed the Woads and anything that had to do with them, she felt weak and horrified. She couldn't bear being outcast again.

In many ways, she felt like a new-born lamb, lost in a sea of vulnerability.

This fort didn't feel like a a safe haven to her anymore. In fact, its cold grey walls and the stern faces of the Roman soldiers felt like anything but it- the former was her prison and the latter her guards.

How different the green, wooden realm of the Woads had felt! Still, neither was her home.

Wistfully, she thought of wind-blown birches, the soggy earth of the swamplands, the cold sea and the light grains of sand crinkling under her feet.

But she wouldn't want to be there either without him, wouldn't want to feel the Gallic winds tearing at her hair without his steady presence beside her.

She gazed once again over to where he still lay sleeping.

A sudden surge of tenderness made her stretch her hand out to touch his cheek, but then she hesitated and held her breath, for she knew, that the slightest movement would wake him.

No. Why was she lying to herself? The fear of waking him was not the only thing, that had kept her from touching him. She had to admit, that she was afraid. The last evening was still too present in her thoughts. The awkward silence, their hesitation…she wasn't sure how much more silence she could take. The sound of his breaths was at least a change from it.

The dark circles stood out even more, as she studied him: the dark lashes, which hid his amber eyes from view, the dark, shaggy hair, which was matted and stringier than usual.

Again, her gaze was drawn to the dark circles under his eyes. In fact they were almost black.

What had he done to himself? What had he done whilst she had been confined to the cold of Marcellus's dungeon, afloat in that strange state of indifference?

***

She was so lost in her musings, that she failed to see that he was peering at her from under half-closed lids. When he cleared his throat softly, she jumped and shuddered slightly.

He took care not to touch her.

"I am sorry."

"It is alright," she said softly and smiled at him. He replied to her affectionate smile with that brief smirk of his, that she had always loved to see.

"Do you have to scout today?" she asked.

"No," he replied, his voice hoarse and still heavily laced with sleep.

"I am glad to you are here."

He raised a dark eyebrow inquisitively. As usual, he knew that there was more.

"I have to tell them," she added softly.

"About Merlin." It was not a question.

"Yes," she mumbled and sought his eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"I was so afraid," she murmured softly, avoiding his steadfast gaze.

"You could have told me."

"You knew."

"I did." It was like a slap to the face, a fall into an ice-cold lake on a frigid day.

"Why aren't you ignoring me then? I betrayed your trust."

He suddenly took her arms in a firm grip. He looked somewhat exasperated.

"When are you finally going to understand, woman, that it is not my intention to let you go? Now now, not ever."

"Thank you," she told him quietly.

He muttered something unintelligible and looked a little awkward. Then he smirked suddenly.

"We have to get up."

"Nooo…," she moaned, half in laziness and half in fear.

He seemed to catch the latter, though, and rested a hand on her slim shoulder. She didn't mind his touch, though she instinctively flinched a little. Hurt flickered briefly in his eyes.

"I will be right behind you," he told her slowly and she relaxed a little.  
"Now get dressed," he said and reached for his tunic. She stifled a smile at his usual abruptness and got up to wash the blue paint off her and to get dressed.

***

The sun hit their faces as they emerged from the building. Isolde stretched her arms out and lifted her face up in the sunlight. She smiled.

"Just happy to see the sun," she told Tristan, who had watched her impassively.

He nodded. "Come."  
With reluctance, she followed him to the practice yards.

The clanging of steel on steel reached their ears already from afar. Isolde was dreading the conversation already.

"We're assembling in the Great Hall at midday," Tristan said in her ear so she would hear it over the din. "I suggest you wait till then."

"Yes," she breathed and eyed his lips, which were just inches away from her face.

If she stretched a little…He understood her intention and evaded her with a brief smirk.

Faintly annoyed, she wanted to turn away, when he came at her again and nuzzled her neck. She exposed it with a sigh. "I win," he told her smugly.

Isolde glared at the impertinent scout, but he only had a wide, innocent smile ready.

"I don't believe you one second."

Tristan opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by Gawain's cheerful voice.

"Tristan! Have you decided to join us ?"

Tristan grunted his confirmation and went off to find a sparring partner.

Isolde meanwhile, climbed up the wooden fence surrounding the yards and watched the fights.

It always was something of a shock to her to see the knights so feral and violent. She knew that this side of them was a large part of them, but she loathed to see it. Her job was to mend what had been broken and to ease pain. The knights inflicted pain, but even more than seeing them inflict it, hurt to see them in pain.

Her eyes flickered over to Tristan. He was sparring with Lancelot.

It was like watching a deadly dance. Lancelot was fierce and quick, but Tristan had a sneaky, yet elegant way of fighting that left the fast fighter looking like a clumsy bear.

***

"Isolde," A voice spoke from behind.

Startled, she nearly fell from her seat and grasped at the fence with shaky hands. Wood splinters were dug in her fingers by the force of her grip.

"Sorry." Arthur's green eyes looked up at her in silent apology. "I did not mean to startle you so badly."  
Isolde nodded weakly, her grip on the wood still tight.

"It's good to have you back, my friend," Arthur said, leaning against the fence.

"It's not been the same without you."

Isolde laughed shortly. "Don't be silly, Arthur. Life here would be the very same with or without me."

"For some not." Arthur looked meaningfully over to Tristan.  
"You have a lot of insight into him, more than he thinks," Isolde observed quietly.

"I do not," Arthur sighed. "Tristan has ever been an enigma, a free spirit that likes to keep to himself. But he loves you. Anyone could see that."

Isolde sighed and leaned forwards from her precarious position to gaze at the ground. Darker dirt patches intermingled with lighter ones, and wearily, she stared at them.

"You have changed, Isolde," Arthur said gravely.

Her head snapped up. For a moment, she felt almost irrationally angered.

"You are the third person who tells me so," she informed him.  
"Well," Arthur replied with a smile, "maybe you should pay it some heed then."

"So perhaps I have changed," she growled irritably. "Is that such a bad thing?"

"No. But getting used to the new Isolde may take some time."

"Everything changes, Arthur," she said, her annoyance now clearly audible. "It's not for us to question this change."

"Yes," Arthur mused, "but who says that we can't prevent it?"

She lightly hopped down from the fence and nodded at Arthur. She didn't reply to his question for his philosophy had always given her headaches, she just said wearily: "See you soon, Arthur."

Resignedly, he nodded at her and gazed after her, as her slim form disappeared around the corner.

* * *

"Isolde," Vanora called joyously. The red-headed woman ran to meet her half-way to the tavern.  
"I have heard of your arrival," she laughed, drawing Isolde into a tight hug. "But I wasn't sure if I could believe the rumours."

Isolde smiled somewhat uncomfortably. The desolate feeling of awkwardness crept up in her even in the moment as she greeted her friend gladly. Vanora seemed to notice her strange mood, for she took Isolde's arm in a firm grip. "C'mon dearie. There are some people who have missed you here."  
"Alright," she agreed haltingly and followed her old friend into the tavern.

"Isolde!" Isolde couldn't help but wince, as Branwaine jumped at her from out of the shadows and enveloped her in a tight hug.  
"Brana…." she mumbled. But before she could even say a word to her friend, another form came out of the shadows and before she knew what was happening, she was roughly lifted off the ground.

Hands around her waist. Hands on her body…A strong grip. Panic came over her. She blindly lashed out and attacked the one who was holding her with her fists desperately. "Let go of me!" she shrieked.  
Suddenly, she was put down. A familiar hand on her shoulder calmed her down. Tristan.  
Slowly, she came back to her senses. Arthur and the knights formed a tight circle around her, Tristan…and Bors, who was lying on the ground, clutching a bloody nose?  
Tristan next to her smiled grimly.

"Bors!" Isolde exclaimed taken aback. Disconcerted, she knelt down next to the sturdy knight. Realisation dawned on her, when she looked to Tristan and then back to Bors.  
"I am sorry…" she breathed guiltily. Tears shot to her eyes and annoyed, she wiped them away. Anything made her cry these days and she hated herself for it.

"Nothin' to be sorry for, lass," Bors said heavily and got up slowly. "I am an idiot," he muttered gruffly.

"What happened to you, Isolde?" Galahad asked fiercely.

She stared at him, feeling how her composure wavered dangerously.

"That Roman bastard…" Bedivere swore loudly.

Tears sprang finally to her eyes, and with a sob, Isolde fled. Blind with tears, she pushed through the rows of the knights and ran out of the tavern.

Meanwhile, Tristan slowly let his hand sink and ran an icy, dangerous look over his fellow knights. Iwain hissed dangerously, but another glare from Tristan and a nudge from Arthur made him fall silent reluctantly. Then, without another word, the scout pushed past them and followed his Lady out.

***

Isolde fell gracelessly on the cot and stared at the ceiling. Frustrated tears swamped her eyes as she thought of what just had happened. Bors had meant no harm, yet she couldn't help but be remembered of his hands on her body whenever a man did so much as look at her.

Footsteps sounded outside. She smiled, a bittersweet smile.

Tristan was taking care to tread loudly, so she would hear him. When she had told him about her worsened hearing, he had just shrugged.

"I can shout, too," he had said earnestly and she had laughed.

"Even though all of them think of me as being a silent spectre."

A fond smile hushed over her face at the memory. Tristan had been understanding and full of hatred towards the men who had done this to her.

The handle turned and shook her out of her thoughts.

It truly was Tristan. She smiled at him weakly.

"I am a fool, aren't I?" she asked quietly.

Tristan swore quietly and sat down next to her. "The only fool is Bors," he growled darkly.

"He meant no harm," Isolde said quickly in his defence. "It's just Bors," she added softly.

"It's just Bors," Tristan scoffed. "The big oaf should be careful lest he doesn't loose his head soon on one of his foolish ventures."

Isolde scowled at him and turned away.

He touched her arm lightly, carefully. "Do you still wish to tell them today? You have my support whenever you choose to do so."

Isolde got up and paced the room, lifting her skirts up and finally standing still, letting them fall down with a soft sound.

"I do. They have to know," she said irritably. "First I will have to tell Arthur. And I appreciate your being there," she added softly to take the sting out of her previous words.

"You have become so jaded, Isolde," he accused suddenly.

Isolde spun around. Anger bubbled up in her. Why did everyone have to accuse her of being changed, of being different? And now even him! "Says the man, who is renowned all over the place for being a cnyic ," she shot back crossly.

Hurt flickered in his eyes for a second and she regretted her harsh words immediately.

However, he evidently chose to ignore them, for he just said:  
"I love you no matter what."

Her anger evaporated as suddenly as it had come and left her with a feeling of profound emptiness. "I am sorry," she mumbled.

Tristan gave her an inscrutable look from amber eyes. "Don't be," he stated impassively, then adding: "This is hardly the worst insult I have heard."

Suddenly, he jumped up.

"Milady, may I offer you my escort for this walk?" he said, bowing and opening the door in a chivalrous manner.

Isolde chuckled at his show of exaggerated chivalry.

"You are becoming a second Lancelot," she accused.

"No," Tristan said with an air of refined elegance. "Lancelot is the amateur. I am the professional who does not have to bother to be obnoxiously ostentatious the whole time."

Isolde laughed, a real laugh and it brought a slight, grateful smile to Tristan's face.

Rarely could she see this wry humorous side of him. Too often it was hidden beneath layers of ruthlessness, an impenetrable manner and a cold glare.

And she knew that he would never show it to the others. He was far too careful to maintain the image of the brutal killer with a liking for bloodshed.

This thought sobered her, and she walked quietly out. Tristan, ever watchful, stayed at her side.

* * *

They were already assembled in the Great Hall, when Gawain walked in and took his place next to Galahad. He looked around in uncertainty.

"Why are we assembling today?" he asked Galahad.

"I am not sure," his friend replied, scratching his beard. "All that Arthur told me, when I asked, was that it was important."  
Gawain soon forgot what he wanted to say next, for the door opened again and Isolde stepped in quietly, followed by Tristan.

All eyes were on them, as they sat down. Tristan, Gawain noted, kept a steady hand on the small of her back, as if to protect her. But what from? They wouldn't do anything to her and Tristan knew that. Gawain took a sharp breath, when he pieced it together.

Galahad had said, that it was important. Isolde was looking like a ghost. She was pale and her lips were pressed together. So the matter of importance obviously had to do something with her. Gawain watched, as she moved a black strand of hair out of her face and frowned.

Surely she knew, that they would do no harm to her even if her news was unpleasant?

He was wrenched out of his thoughts by Arthur entering and taking his seat.

"Knights…" Arthur said slowly and looked at them. Gawain presumed that their commander already knew what the news entailed.

They perked up at his tone of voice.

Bedivere, ever impatient, finally burst out as the silence dragged on: "Well, what is it?"

"It is not my place to tell you," Arthur said, effectively shattering Gawain's calm as his earlier assumption was proven to be true for his commander looked to Isolde and gave her a nod.

"Isolde?" Dagonet asked, wonder in his voice.

"I-" Isolde said and bit her lip. Again, Gawain was struck by the change in her. She had been self-confident before going to the Roman but it had been replaced by insecurity and fear.

He balled his fists in a show of anger. Tristan's questioning gaze flitted over to him.

Gawain mouthed `Marcellus Aurelius.´ Tristan's calm mask disappeared to be replaced by a look of utter and complete hatred and he nodded.

***

Giving Tristan a nod, Gawain focused on Isolde again.

She had gathered some confidence and started to talk again. "When you battled the Woads…."

Gawain listened intently. When she had finished her both surprising and shocking tale there was a loud silence.

Finally, Iwain exploded: "You treacherous wench!"

He wanted to lunge at her, but was met with Tristan's fist and went flying through the room.

The scout had put Isolde behind his back and stared at his brothers with a look, that clearly told them, that they'd be messing with him, if one of them did only so much as look at Isolde the wrong way.

They had instinctively got up as well. Dagonet held his hands up in a placating gesture. "We mean no harm to her, Tristan," he told the scout, who had bared his teeth in a feral way.

They all nodded their quick assent.

Gawain finally decided to speak up. He had seen and heard enough. "Isolde," he addressed the clearly terrified Gaul. "You have given us a lot to contemplate. You see," he ran his gaze over his brother knights, "the Woads, the blue Inish ghosts of the forests are our arch-enemies. It is a sensitive issue for all of us. But," and his blue glare found Iwain who sneered at him, "you have saved us from being slaughtered. And for that," he looked back at Isolde, "we are forever in your debt."

There was a short silence, then Percival stepped forward.

"There is wisdom in Gawain's words," he quietly announced.

"Good," Bors gruffly said. "What about callin' an end to this meeting?"

"I agree," Arthur spoke up. His expression was caught somewhere between horror at Iwain's actions and approval of Gawain's words. "We shall call this meeting to an end now to calm the emotions."

They all made their way to the door.

"Iwain, a word, if you please,"Arthur called. As Iwain stayed behind, Tristan passed him.

Gawain saw that they exchanged a glare of the utmost hatred, and he was glad not to be caught inbetween.

"Gawain!" Isolde. He stopped and turned around, pushing some of his long golden mane out of his eyes as he looked at her.

She was flushed and looked as if she might cry at the next moment. He felt sorry for his friend.

"Thank you," she told him earnestly.

"You are welcome," he said lowly and watched as she was being pulled away by Tristan.

The corridor was now empty and silent.

Gawain wondered, when exactly silence had started to be so loud.

* * *

_tbc...so, what do you think?_


	34. The Still Joy

_Hi! You're all really great! Wow! Thank you for so many reviews. Thanks,** Lairiel, ILuvOdie, Rhysel, CarolinaJuliette** (as always, look at the profile for your reply^^) and of course **Queen Amy! **You're all wonderful readers!**  
**_

_Here I would also like to thank all silent readers. Yes, **you**! You, right there. I know that you are there, so don't even try to deny it. There is that nice feature called "reader traffic", you know :D. Anyway, I am glad that you are here and I hope that you continue enjoying. And maybe you would also like to leave a little review? *blinks*_

_Oh, and I know, I know that I said I would only update tomorrow, but then I realised that I would be far too busy tomorrow, so I decided to update already today. I hope you don't mind it :D_

_This chapter was much easier to write and I hope that you like it :D  
_

_-Sachita :D_

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**34. The Still Joy**

*****  
**

Joy. Pure joy. She stretched her hands out towards the sky, trying to gather the precious sapphire colour in the palms of her hands.

The sun was burning brightly, illuminating the British countryside.

Euphoria. Lightness.

She allowed herself a small laugh at this new sentiment and threw her head back, staring in the sun. She closed her eyes, soaking up the warmth and the happiness until it dripped off her.

"Careful, you'll fall off," a serious, deep voice admonished her, as strong arms encircled her waist. Tristan.

"I won't fall off," she laughed. "I am as light as a feather!"

H laughed, that pleasant, intense sound rarely heard. "I am sure Byaczt here would disagree."

As if to confirm his statement, Byaczt whinnied and bobbed his head.

Isolde smacked his shoulder lightly and he smirked briefly.

"Byaczt surely wouldn't disagree with a Lady, now, would he?"

Byaczt whinnied once again. It sounded as if he was concurring .

"Traitor," Tristan muttered and Isolde laughed.

***

Tristan gripped the reins tightly as he thought of the recent events. Isolde was safely placed in front of him. Her dark hair flew to the right and the left, tickling his nose, as she tried to take it all in. Tristan chuckled slightly to himself. Britannia on a sunny day was a beautiful country, but he wasn't as amazed as her about the beauty of it all for he had seen it often and also could not forget this isle's victims, not even in this innocent sunshine.

Things had become better at the fort over the course of the last months. The knights and her seemed to have reached a shaky agreement. Tristan, of course, had ever been supportive of her and he had had a hard time as well- those of the knights looking at her the wrong way had earned at least one of his dark glowers, but whenever Iwain came in, his hand had automatically strayed to his dagger.

This strain in the relationship between him and his brothers had taken its toll on him, too, so they were both glad that things were finally starting to look better.

***

"Tristan, look!" Isolde cried suddenly, effectively putting an end to his thoughts.

"What is it?" he asked alarmed.

She laughed at his tone of voice. "A lake!"

Tristan eyed the lake, which was shimmering in the sun. "Yes?" he asked blankly.

A lake. Well, a lake in the sun. More was not to be seen. At least that was what Tristan saw.

But Isolde saw so much more. She saw golden mists playing in the sun, while slight ripples on the placid surface chased small birds across the body of water. Tall, sinewy willows trembled in a slight breeze, their dark heads swaying placidly along.

The air flickered in the midday sun. Clouds of flies played avidly in the dry air.

Thus, Isolde turned around to Tristan as far as her current position would allow it, and shook her head disbelievingly at his dry question.

He raised an eyebrow at her antics and chuckled good-naturedly, as she gracefully slipped off the horse.

When she skipped towards the lake, however, he quickly urged Byaczt into a light trot.

A sharp spasm of fear had gripped him as soon as she had started to break into a run.

"Careful, Isolde!" he called out loudly. He knew that his fear was completely unfounded and irrational for the chances of Woads being in their imminent vicinity were slim and the danger of them harming her was minimal. Still, if he was honest, his real problem were not the Woads but a deep-seated anxiety that befell him, whenever she was out of his sight. She had been taken from him one time too many and he didn't intend to lose her on his watch again.

***

"Tristan!" she called and he quickly dismounted to join her at the edge of the lake, where she was standing, just looking into the water with an absent-minded smile.

It was good to see her joke and laugh again, yet at times he felt that her jokes and her laughter were almost overdone, as if she was trying too hard. He knew that she was still hurting, yet did her best not to let them see.

But _maybe_, he thought as he watched her take a hesitant step into the lake, her skirts gathered up in her hands, _maybe_ she was finally beginning to heal.

Isolde happily splashed some water about with her foot. She remembered standing at the Gallic coast long ago, looking at the sea. She had been overjoyed to see the water and the sea stretching out to infinite horizons in front of her. It had also been the day, she had first met Tristan. He had been washed up on the shore….

Now, standing at yet another vast expanse of water, she realised that she had indeed changed.

She had become older and maybe she had also lost some of that youthful spirit along the way.

Yet she was still Isolde and the playful part of her would never be completely gone.

A wide smile broke out on her face, as the realisation gripped her, that she might have found a way back to who she had been before…before…this whole ordeal.

"Tristan!" she called. He was still standing at the edge of the lake, deep in thought. A slight breeze had come up, ruffling his hair. At her shout he looked up blankly and didn't appear to really have noticed her.

A slight giggle escaped her, as a devious idea came to her mind.

She launched herself at him and used her own weight to pull him with her.

They fell with a great splash and Isolde laughed, as she came up and saw him rising up from the floods, an indignant expression on his face. He scowled at her and looked like some sort of Water sprite, soaked and dripping as he was. He looked completely adorable, but she didn't say it out loud. She had a feeling that Tristan did not appreciate being called "adorable".

Even thinking of calling him like that made her giggle.

"I don't see the humour in all that," he groused.

"It's a warm day, ideal for a bath, Tristan," she replied with perfect sincerity. "Besides, Tristan, you were in dire need of a bath anyway."

He looked at her stoically for a long minute, while she had to make a huge effort to contain her wide grin that wanted to take over her face.

Suddenly a slight chuckle escaped him and he splashed some water in her direction:

"Woman…"

* * *

They had been swimming and joking in the water for some time, when something made her suddenly look over to the Woods. She didn't know what it was, but once her eyes had got used to the green gloom, she could make out a single figure standing there. Its contours almost blended in with the green around it. It was a man.

She gasped as she looked more closely because she would have recognised him anywhere.

Eyes so much like the man beside her, yet completely different. Dark, long hair.

A tendency to flirt with anything that moved on two legs.

"Áedh," she whispered.

Tristan had followed her gaze, and then, as quick as a raptor, he had pushed her behind him.

"What do you want, Woad?" he growled.

It was too far for Áedh to have heard Tristan's words, but Isolde could have sworn, that she saw how he nodded at her.

Then, quicker than a ghost, he disappeared in the green gloom.

Tristan snarled and showed his teeth.

Abruptly, he threw her over his shoulder and didn't let her down despite her struggles.

"We are going back," he informed her lowly. "Back" meaning the fort here. He had never referred to it as home.

"Let me down," she hissed angrily.

"No." It was an impassive, bland reply and he didn't say more on the whole way back to the fort.

* * *

They must have made a ridiculous sight for they were completely soaked, but Isolde's stony expression and Tristan's hard stare made the few knights, who were having a break in front of the stables , quickly rein in their amusement.

"What happened, Tristan?" Dagonet, who had been quick to catch on to the strained atmosphere asked.

"Woad," the scout said coldly and brushed past him, leaving Dagonet to stare at Isolde with a quizzical look.

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she abruptly spun around and disappeared in the direction of the knights' quarters.

"Tristan." Dagonet grabbed a hold of Tristan's arm as the dark-tempered scout attempted to storm past him.

Tristan snarled and wanted to free himself from his grip, but Dagonet firmly stood his ground.

Tristan's other arm was sudddenly in Lancelot's firm grip, who had appeared quietly from behind.

"What happened Tristan?" Dagonet asked again.

The scout gave them a look that clearly said that they had to fear for their lives, yet neither of them was particularly fazed. They had been dealing with his violent moods for long years now and so they knew that Tristan, while being unpredictable and vicious, never hurt any of them seriously.

Tristan knew that they knew, too, and so he finally relented in their grip even though the dark glare was still firmly present.

"A Woad man," he admitted finally, the Sarmatian accent thick.

"What did he do and what did you do?" Lancelot asked curiously, wondering if the Woad man had paid for angering Tristan with his life.

"He watched us," Tristan answered, his fury clearly audible. "She seemed to know him," he added quieter.

"Ha!" Lancelot crowed. "I knew it!" Both Tristan and Dagonet watched in irritated befuddlement, as he hit the air with his fist and grinned widely.

A stable hand passed him and shot him the sort of pitying look, that clearly said, that the knight had apparently finally gone mad. _Well, small wonder_, the women down at the market would say,_ they have always been crazy savages- lunacy is just the next logical step._

"What did you know?" Dagonet eventually asked.

"He's jealous." Lancelot pointed to Tristan, still with that look of triumph on his face.

The scout raised a dark eyebrow coolly. "I am not jealous," he stated unemotionally.

"Oh yes, you are," Lancelot grinned. "Believe me," he added, "I know a jealous man when I see one."

"Anyhow," Dagonet advised gently, ignoring Lancelot's antics, "you should talk to her. See her side of the things."

Tristan finally nodded wearily, accepting the wisdom in his brother knights' words.

With a last nod of farewell, he went off to find his Lady.

The two knights stood in companionable silence for a while.

Eventually Lancelot asked, and his voice was strangely tight: "What do you think the future will hold for them?"

"I don't know," the quiet giant answered slowly. "This could end in many ways, both in bad and happy ones."

"I hope that it ends well. For both of them," Lancelot mused quietly.

Dagonet just looked at him.

In an attempt to justify his thoughts, even if Dagonet hadn't asked for a justification, Lancelot added: "They are so perfect together. They are made for each other. Anyone could see that."

"Do you miss a love like that?" Dagonet finally asked in his thoughtful, measured way.

"How can one miss what one never had?" Lancelot asked sardonically, and with a last nod to Dagonet, he too, was gone.

Dagonet looked after him and softly shook his head. He, too, hoped that everything would end well.

* * *

It knocked on the door of Isolde's quarters, the same quarters she had occupied before travelling to Marcellus, courtesy of Arthur. Isolde sat on her bed. She was sorting out dirty laundry, for she had to go to the stream to wash her things on the next day.

"Come," she called tartly.

The door swung open and Tristan entered, a dark scowl on his face.

The slight woman didn't look up from her work. "What do you want?"

He growled, an aggressive sound.

Still, she didn't look up. "What do you want?" she repeated, enunciating her words carefully.

Suddenly he dragged her up from the bed and held her wrists in a firm grip.

"Look at me," he growled. "Look at me, woman, when I am talking to you! I only want the best for you, damn it!"

Isolde trembled violently in his harsh grip. She felt one of the harrowing panic attacks coming on. She struggled, but there was no way to escape his tight grip.

Terror seized her. "Let me go!" she cried, the expression in her eyes akin to that of a cornered deer. "Let me go!"

Tristan must have seen something in her eyes, for he stepped back and breathed in sharply, countenancing himself. He looked almost as horrified as her and for a while, there was nothing in the room save for their hectic breathing.

She struggled to calm her raging heart beat, then she lifted her eyes up to look at him.

He was staring down at his hands, then back at her. His expression resembled a lightning strike amidst the raging clouds of a thunderstorm.

Slowly, he took a step backwards.

"Don't," she pleaded softly.

The look in the amber eyes softened and he stayed where he was.

"I am sorry," he told her heavily.

"No," Isolde said tiredly, "I am the one who is sorry, Tristan."

***

She sank down on the bed and although he sat down on the bed, too, he was careful to sit down as far away from her as possible.

This distance drove her mad. Without another word, she got up and seated herself next to him, taking his hand. He looked down at their entwined hands, then at her.

He had said his piece, had said that he was sorry and Isolde knew that he would say no more on the subject.

"I have never been with another man than you," she told him quietly.

"That Woad?" he asked shortly.

"No."

"I should have never doubted you."

"Don't be sorry."  
"I am not. I am angry at myself."

Isolde laughed out loud, for one because these words sounded strange coming from his lips and also because she imagined him sending that dark glare to himself.

He gave her a strange look, but when no explanation was forthcoming, he shook his head slightly.

"Just imagining you being angry at yourself," Isolde explained finally.

He glared at her comically, then traced her collarbone. She shuddered softly under his cold touch and was almost disappointed, when he withdrew his hand, a pendant on his calloused palm. "You still have it."

It was the pendant he had once given to her and she lightly traced the contours of the small, silver horses, then put her hand atop of his, enclosing the pendant in the space between.

"Of course I do."

He ran a hand along her arm and lifted it up, caressing the side of her face.

"I'd like you to come with me."  
"To Sarmatia?"

"Yes."

Isolde lay down on the bed and gazed at the ceiling, listening to the muffled hustle and bustle of the outside world. The lazy humming of a bee somewhere outside could be heard in the ensuing, contemplative silence.

She sat up again and looked at him. The look on his face was hard to describe. Hesitant was the first word that came to her mind.

"Of course I will," she said, even though she was not as confident as she sounded. _Sarmatia_, she reflected. She wondered what the people were like there. Britannia was a different land than Gaul, yet it had never sounded as foreign as Sarmatia to her…

"What is it like?" she asked quietly before he could even reply to her quick statement.

***

He closed his eyes and they sat in silence, before he started to speak. His rich voice filled the small, bare room with images greater than it.

"I remember the wind, that tore at my hair, whenever I was out riding with my father. Whilst we rode on the grassy plains, that reached into endless widths and were encircled by the blue sky, a sky so blue and brilliant that it sometimes hurt just to look at it, dust was raised by our horses' hooves. It was golden dust and it made the air at midday dance."

He paused, almost wistfully. Isolde had involuntarily closed her eyes and listened to his tale, completely enraptured.

"In winter the plains were frozen. Our breath formed white clouds in the air. Often the rivers had flooded the meadows and they were frozen over. The cerulean sky was reflected on the glassy surface and clouds moved over it like endless swarms of fish. It was often so cold in winter, that my mother didn't allow us to go out. Yet the spring would always come…with a multitude of insects and soggy earth. When I rode over the plains I sometimes thought that I could fly….just that little bit quicker…and I rode and felt as if I were alone on the edge of the world, where I could reach the vast sky with my bare hands. And then I looked around over the endless grass desert and felt so small, so insignificant, that I quickly abandoned the idea."

He fell silent and Isolde drew a deep breath. She could see that he had been completely lost in his own tale. She imagined him in that faraway country, years ago, a small dark-haired boy with sharp eyes and a fast horse. Wild, free.

"I will come with you," she said.

He nodded, his impassive mask firmly back in place. Outside, a rooster crowed and shook them out of their thoughts.

"It's just little more than seven moons now till you are discharged," Isolde mused.

"Aye," he agreed lowly. Then he added, much to her surprise:

"Freedom and a life without the bloodshed of many battles is a foreign notion for me."

Isolde didn't know what to say in the first moment. Then she ventured hesitantly:

"You've always got me."

He was silent for a long time. Then he looked at her, the amber eyes filled with a definite warmth. "That I do."

* * *

_tbc (=_


	35. On the Verge of Tomorrow

_Hi everyone! Since you are so wonderful reviewers, I have put an extra effort into writing more and thus the next chapter will be up either tomorrow or at the latest on Sunday. Oh, you're truly amazing! Thank you for your marvellous reviews, **gmygurl** (Welcome aboard! =) ), **ILuvOdie**, **Lairiel**, **Rhysel**, **CarolinaJuliette** and of course **Amy**! _

_This is a rather short chapter, but I had to end it there because it wouldn't have suited to the content of the next chapter. But, as I said, the next one will be up soon =D _

_"On the Verge of Tomorrow", this chapter's title refers to the world in those days. Rome was on the brink of destruction and it was overrun by the Huns and by other Nomadic tribes, because the migration of the people started, as you surely all know. And so I tried to work that overwhelming change into the story. I hope you like it. Please tell me what you think about it.  
_

_-Sachita (-;  
_

* * *

**35. On the Verge of Tomorrow**

*****  
**

The day had started with a nasty surprise. A red-cloaked Roman soldier had arrived in the early hours of dawn, delivering a parchment, that had Arthur call in a meeting with the knights. When he had read to them what the parchment said, there was a long silence.

Then Bedivere exploded: "No bloody reinforcements? No rations?," he raged.

Arthur, keeping to his usual calm, just gazed at him and the weariness they had seen on their commander lately became more apparent. He sighed.

"No, Bedivere, I fear not."

"Can't the Romans ever do things right?"

Arthur spun around, his green stare intense as his eyes bored into Galahad's, who had spoken.

The young knight recoiled a little. An angry Arthur was a rare occurrence, but it always meant trouble, for the fierce, often volatile Sarmatians were only kept on the ground by his calm, steady influence. If he was unsettled, it meant that they were all unsettled.

"It's not Rome's fault, Galahad!"

The anger evaporated as suddenly as it had come and Arthur rubbed his eyes, looking even wearier if that was possible. He began to pace up and down in the Great Hall, where they had all assembled.

"Wild savages from everywhere," Arthur spoke quietly, "are practically on Rome's doorstep. Everything is falling apart. The system is disintegrating, the Emperor is weak. Intriguers in the Senate regularly replace him as if he were a mere puppet and not the one, everything depends on. Rome's military is undermined by mercenaries, disloyal foreign warriors , who are just looking for a chance to revolt against the foreign force. There are countless assaults on our outposts, who are withstanding the force, but only barely."

He paused and closed his eyes. "I don't know where this all will end."

They looked at him in silence, the ten of them who had survived till now: Iwain, Geraint, Bedivere, Percival, Gawain, Galahad, Bors, Dagonet, Lancelot and Tristan.

"Arthur," Gawain finally spoke up. "Is that how you think about us, too? Foreign warriors who are just looking for a chance to revolt?"

Arthur opened his eyes in apparent shock. "No! Of course not. Why would you think that?"

"We are Sarmatians," Galahad said, passion colouring his young voice. "We are no Romans. Arthur."

Arthur looked at him in amazement. "I know that. I didn't mean you earlier, naturally."

Lancelot finally stepped in and tried to calm the waves.

"What we mean to tell you, Arthur, is that you have to fear no disloyalty from us. Yet you have to remember that we are no Romans and never will be. It were Romans, who brought us here and Rome, which made us to what we are." Assenting nods all through the room.

"But we have nothing against you, Arthur. We would never revolt for you have proven yourself worthy of our trust many times over."

Arthur sank down at his place at the round table and looked at each and every one of them slowly.

They all gave him nods of consent and seeing that they were dismissed, they slowly walked out of the door. Arthur gazed after them.

Tristan's voice jolted him out of his reverie. "Remember, Arthur, the spring always comes after the winter. Everything is destroyed and rebuilt. That is the course of nature."

"Yes," Arthur said heavily after he had overcome his surprise. "But why does everything that is good have to be destroyed as well?"

He got up and slowly walked to the door, while the enigmatic scout's dark eyes followed him.

***

Arthur paused, when he had emerged from the building, and stared in the treacherous, blinding light of the sun. How could the sun shine so innocently, now, on this day?

A heavy sigh escaped his lips. He allowed his steps to take him wherever they led him.

Upon passing a group of women, who were hanging out laundry, he stopped when he recognised Isolde. She did look better, he reflected. Her dark hair was in a tight braid and colour had returned to her cheeks. She was laughing and talking to the other women.

_Yes_, Arthur thought. Maybe he could talk to Isolde. Right now he needed someone to listen and she had ever been one of the most compassionate and insightful women he'd ever met, despite her having little to none formal education and coming from one of the areas, that many citizens of Rome would certainly look upon with contempt.

Another heavy sigh escaped him. The truth was, as usual, hard to define.

"Isolde," he called. She didn't appear to have heard him, but one of the woman elbowed her and pointed in his direction.

Isolde turned around and smiled, when she saw him.

"Arthur!" she exclaimed.

"Do you mind me talking to you for a minute?" he asked simply.

Isolde turned around to an older woman, who gave her a short nod. Then she joined Arthur.

"What is the matter, Arthur?" she asked quietly.

"Do you mind if we take a little walk?"

Isolde looked surprised, but then simply shook her head.

***

They walked up to the wall-top in silence, then they stopped. Arthur looked over the surrounding land in silence.

"I have heard of your argument," Isolde ventured quietly.

Arthur looked at her in surprise. "Tristan?" he guessed.

She smiled and nodded, her eyes fond, when she thought of her beloved.

"I am happy for you, you know, "Arthur remarked and smiled at her, although it was a wan smile.

"Thank you," Isolde said softly. "But that's not what you wanted to say," she added.

"No, indeed not." He leaned against the stone. "I think I just need someone to listen."

"Speak. I will listen," she said gently.

He remained silent for a short while longer, then he suddenly burst out:

"Everything is falling apart."

She looked at him seriously. "Rome, Arthur?"

"Yes, Rome." He hit the stone wall in frustration. "There is deceit and dishonesty in Rome's most important institutions. The people suffer under the enormous taxes. Barbarians from everywhere are trying to bring Rome to its knees."

He paused and then said hoarsely: "Imagine if it were all lost- imagine all the knowledge, that would just vanish. Latin and Greek writings, the words of our greatest philosophers and poets: Catius, Cicero, Vergil and Ovid! Imagine all our technology and inventions slowly lost to the destructive force of nature!"

When he was finished, Arthur's eyes shone with anguish. He was breathing heavily.

Isolde simply looked at him. "I can't say that I have heard of these persons before, but I have not been educated in any way that you Romans consider necessary. But I know that there is always a new sunrise, always a new day, no matter what the evening has brought."

"But how," Arthur asked, his face stricken with pain, "can the new sunrise just erase all ideas of what has been good and true before? How can this new day justify robbing an entire people, an entire nation of their convictions and dreams?"

"Has this very nation not robbed others of their convictions and dreams before?" Isolde asked sharply, but regretted it immediately when she saw the expression on Arthur's face.

"I am sorry," she added quietly.

"No," Arthur said slowly. "You are right, in a way. But if we taught all those living in Rome about equality and freedom, like Pelagius taught me…if it were possible to reform Rome from within, if it were possible to make them see that Rome is not the superior nation, but should guide the others to that point of progress, too, by sticking to the traditional principles of duty, honour and fairness…"

"If there is someone who could convince the people, it is you, Arthur."

***

Arthur deflated suddenly. "Mere dreams," he whispered dejectedly. "And the new sunrise will come and shine on a barren land."

"Why so pessimistic, Arthur?" Isolde chided. "You are a great man and a promising leader. The knights look up to you."

"In the end," Arthur replied wearily, "I am just a soldier, who tries to live like the soldiers of the old days. The Rome of the old days was different, full of honourable men. And I try to be just like them, even though it's probably pointless and I choose to believe in the illusion, that Rome of today has not changed."

"And in the end, Arthur, I am just a mere woman. And I don't know what the future will bring."

"I would never ask you, my friend," Arthur replied and gave her a wan smile.

Isolde replied to his pained smile with a weak of her own. Behind them the red sunset illuminated the land and painted the people's faces crimson, while everything prepared for a new sunrise, a new day.

* * *

Later, Isolde was lying in Tristan's arms, deep in thought, while he lazily drew circles on her back. "I can't help but think about his words," she whispered. "I told him, that no matter what, a new sunrise would come."

"Arthur?" Tristan guessed.

She nodded quietly and he reflected for a moment, searching for words, then he said:

"It's only natural. Arthur's whole belief, his whole world is based on Rome's splendour, Rome's greatness and Rome's fairness. The latest news, however- every year a new Emperor- is the exact opposite of everything he has fought for."

"Yes," Isolde mumbled. "I guess you're right."

"I know I am," he said darkly.

"Tristan," she said suddenly.

He looked up at her tone of voice in alarm. "What is it, Isolde?"

She laughed a little. "I have been thinking."

"Yes?" He looked at her expectantly, almost impatient. Tristan was used to knowing everything, so he didn't take well to secrets.

She hesitated shortly, then she asked: "Have you ever thought about having a family before?"

Tristan looked caught off guard, then he replied curtly: "No."

Disappointed and strangely disheartened, Isolde wanted to turn away.

Tristan caught her wrists. "Doesn't mean that I wouldn't want to have one, you know," he said in his accentuated Latin.

Isolde smiled at him with moist eyes. "I have been using herbs."

"You have?" Surprise coloured his words. He looked a little lost.

Isolde hit him lightly on the shoulder. "Yes. For someone as extraordinarily sharp as you are, Tristan, this question was exceptionally foolish."

He merely raised a dark eyebrow at her and she snorted unladylike.

"Stop using the herbs," he stated firmly.

"Tristan," she breathed happily and he drew her in a fervent kiss. She kissed back frantically, and soon they were lost yet again in the overwhelming passion, that burning fire that erased all logical thought.

Suddenly, though, he pulled away.

"What is it?" she asked apprehensively.

"I don't want to- I mean- what he did to you-" Tristan looked awkward, even unsure.

Comprehension came to Isolde quickly. This was the first time, that he had touched her, after- after the Roman. "No," she told him earnestly. "I want you."

"You want me to…?"

"No," she said patiently. "You. I want you."

A tender light sprang to Tristan's eyes and his lips curled to a warm smile. Without words, he took her slim hand and brought it to his lips.

Isolde smiled wickedly and traced the lines on his torso with her other hand. She blew out the bedside candle.

He chuckled lightly and soon they were both lost one again in that tidal wave, that both terrifying and marvellous deluge of emotion.

***

Later they were lying next to each other, already on the edge of sleep.

Isolde gazed about the dark room and shuddered slightly, as the blackness of the night assaulted her senses.

"Isolde?" Tristan asked drowsily, his voice already filled with the first inkling of sleep.

"I don't like the dark," she said quietly and heard how her voice shattered the silence.

"You don't have to be afraid." Tristan's voice was low. "I am here."

"I love the sun so much," she whispered and remembered that moment in the dungeon, when she had mistaken the guard's lantern for the sun. She remembered the ensuing despair and disappointment like a physical pain, and instinctively she winced, clinging to Tristan.

Tristan's deep voice filled the silence with a new meaning and allowed life to come into the room. His voice was interwoven with that sound of nothingness, that sound of silence and Isolde felt how a sense of safety and secureness overcame her.

"We will have many sunrises together, my love."

* * *

_tbc_


	36. Somewhere Beyond Our Reach

_Hi! Thank you so much for your amazing reviews, **gymgurl, Rhysel, ILuvOdie, Irish Maid** ( welcome to the story^^) and **Amy**! _

_Forgive me for being a bit short with you today, but this chapter was really exhausting to write and now I am somewhat worn out^^. I hope, however, that you like it. It's a bit dramatic, I would admit that immediately, but still, I hope it's alright.  
_

_I am not sure when I'll update the next one. Sometime next week, hopefully. Please tell me what you think about this one._

_Sachita :D  
_

* * *

**36. Somewhere Beyond Our Reach  
**

***

It was early autumn and a dry wind outside shook the splendidly-coloured leaves from the trees. The wind changed gradually, it became a moist wind, an unpleasant one. The inhabitants of the villages and the fort stayed inside as much as they could, as storms pounded on the land and let many wooden huts shiver and quiver in the sharp gusts of air.

Now corned beef was eaten and all that had been stored after the harvest came to good use.

Isolde spent her days often with her old friend Branwaine, who had become a mother in the time that she had been away. A little boy, named Artanus, with hair the colour of fire and eyes like the sea was her whole pride. Isolde had often teased her that the boy bore little resemblance to his black-haired father Flavius. To this accusation Branwaine had always, much to Isolde's secret joy- looked at her wide-eyed and had snapped: "Isolde!" Of course this had led to more teasing.

Isolde enjoyed the time with her friend, even though she sometimes felt a twinge of envy, whenever she looked at the little boy.

"Oh, you will soon have your hands full, too, Isa," Branwaine remarked once off-handedly, wagging her eyebrows.

Isolde's face took on the colour of Artanus's hair and she didn't reply, which made Branwaine chuckle in wry amusement, as she thought of what could have made her friend redden that way. And it was indeed the thought of her evenings and her nights spent with Tristan, that had let Isolde turn this peculiar shade of red.

Their love was stronger than ever and she always waited for him impatiently and anxiously while he was out on one of his scouting trips. But when he came back to the fort after a long scouting trip, exhausted, hungry and bruised, she was always there, breathless and with flying skirts to wait for him.

The evenings were theirs and theirs alone. Sometimes they just lay on the narrow bed and held onto each other, at other times they spoke until the night outside gave way to the pale, waxy colour of pre-dawn and sometimes they collided like shooting stars and got lost somewhere on the way to earth.

It were only two months now until the knights received their official discharge papers and Isolde looked forward to that day with a mixture of trepidation and joy.

Tristan grunted always impassively, whenever she mentioned it, and so she had taken to avoiding that topic altogether, sensing that it made him only uncomfortable.

But something else was to happen, something that they all wouldn't have dared to imagine in their worst nightmares. It was like a black shadow that crept toward them at a steady pace, not to be stopped, not to be evaded.

***

And it all began on a dreary, windy autumn afternoon .

The wind that made Isolde's hair dance was not a pleasant one. It was a harsh, stinging wind that drove tears to her eyes and let her adjust the scarf around her head tighter.

The cool of autumn brought a definite chill with it that crept under bones and coats. The grey mood that hung over it all had even silenced the optimists among them and the cold was not the only thing, which came along with the first days of autumn.

The neighing of a tired horse made her look up attentively and shook her out of her thoughts.

A weary traveller came in, and it was his face that Isolde would later remember with horrific clarity: the sunken-in cheeks, his dull eyes and his straggly hair. He arrived on a bony horse and with him, despair came like a vulture, stretching its talons out.

He suddenly stopped half-way to the fort's inn, and Isolde stared at him with a dark feeling of foreboding. Suddenly the man fell off his horse, like a rag doll with cut limbs.

Once her initial shock had worn off, she had immediately run to him, yet someone else had been quicker. It had been an old woman, who had recoiled in horror.

"He is dead! The fever! It's the burning fever!" she had screeched, stretching her hands out towards the heavens in a show of silent reproach. "The fever! "

Isolde's heart beat immediately faster. The fever! Of course she knew of it, had heard that it had killed the populations of whole towns already and left destruction and terror in its wake. But never would she have dreamed….

"Burn him!" she ordered quickly and pointed to the corpse. The people hesitated. "What are you waiting for?" she asked impatiently. "Burn him!"

A man stepped forward. "Lady," he said, "we are not sure if this is the right way to proceed. The evil spirit lingering in this man's bones could exact his revenge on us..."

Isolde glared at him with all the dignity, she could muster. Even if she held no title, her being with the knights and Centurion Artorius Castus evidently gave her some semblance of nobility in the eyes of the simple people, and she fully intended to use this influence now. This man had to be burned for he carried the seeds of a deadly illness within. An illness, which was not the work of an evil spirit.

"Burn him!" she repeated harshly. "Do it because I say so."

The man hesitated, but a deep voice ordered: "Do as she says! The Lady knows what she is talking about." It was one of the Roman physicians, who went by the name of Aquilius, a man of originally Celtic descent, who had lived among the Romans for so long that he had adapted to their lifestyle.

Finally the man obeyed and both Isolde and the Roman watched, how he and some others covered the corpse with sticks and wood, and then proceeded to pour oil over it and burn it.

Isolde exchanged a grim look with Aquilius over the sizzling flames that burned brightly and greedily. A hard time was coming up to meet them and they could not do anything but pray to the gods, regardless which god they believed in, that they would be shown mercy and be spared from this fiery devil.

But to no avail.

***

Two days later, there was coughing and fever everywhere. Isolde and the others had their hands full, every day, it seemed there were more cases and the fort felt more and more like a cemetery than like a place filled with life. Even the women down at the local market fell silent and the harsh lines in their faces said all that they couldn't put in words. Fear was almost tangible in the air, in the smell of the sickbeds and in the look in people's eyes.

Despair grasped Isolde in overwhelming waves as more and more people fell ill, and one day Tristan found her sitting in the stables, sobbing quietly. He made her rest for a whole day then, and although she weakly protested, she was far too exhausted for real resistance.

But everything that had been bad before only got worse on one dreary winter day.

It was Galahad who came running into Isolde's chambers, out of breath and as white as a sheet.

Isolde sat up from where she had been resting and stared at him with red eyes and disheveled hair.

"Galahad!" she exclaimed shocked. "What is it?"

Galahad let out a sound that was half a harsh breath and half a sob.

"Isolde!" he cried and fear shone strongly in his eyes. He frantically tore at his hair as he searched for words. "It's Bedivere!"

No other words were needed, as Isolde jumped up and grabbed her supplies:

"Bring me to him!"

"Dagonet asked me to get you," Galahad explained while they ran down the corridor.

"How is he?" Isolde panted, her words almost inaudible over the rush of air.

"He is feverish and unresponsive," Galahad yelled back as they crossed a corner and finally came to Bedivere's room.

"Thank you, Galahad," she said, out of breath. He nodded and she quietly entered the room.

***

"Bedivere..." she murmured. Dagonet, who was sitting beside the bed, looked up as she entered.

"Isolde..." he greeted her wearily.

"Dagonet," she said distracted for her eyes were drawn to the still figure lying in the bed.

Bedivere would have almost looked peaceful, if not for the sweat that run down his face in beads and his laboured breaths.

"How is he?" Isolde asked quietly.

Dagonet sighed. "He is bad. He is burning up."

As if to contradict his words, Bedivere suddenly shot up in bed and shivered violently. His teeth chattered with the force of his tremors. His glazed eyes showed no recognition as he gazed about the room uncomprehendingly. Dagonet pressed him down to lie on the bed once again and the knight obeyed. His eyes slid shut immediately.

"It's the fever!" Isolde cried out in sudden recognition. Dagonet nodded sadly.

"I called you to ask you for your knowledge of fever-lowering herbs or powders," he explained. "I have only a limited knowledge of those, as I was rather taught how to treat flesh wounds and worse."

Isolde nodded, already focused on the task at hand. "We lived in swamplands," she said, not looking at Dagonet, while she sorted through her herbs and salves. "Fever was a common occurrence, for we had mosquitoes in over-abundance."

Dagonet nodded and watched as she held out some dried flowers to him:

"Elder flowers, yarrow flowers and peppermint leaves. We have to pour boiling water on them now and then give the brew to Bedivere."

"I will see to it." Dagonet took the dried flowers from her hands and left the room, his steps heavy. Isolde looked after him, then back to Bedivere.

***

The usually so lively knight was pale and motionless in the bed. His dark, long hair was plastered to his forehead in wet strands and the grey eyes remained closed.

Isolde sighed and checked his temperature. He was still burning up, but Isolde's cold touch made him open his eyes.

"Dilys…" he rasped. "Dilys…"

"Hush," Isolde tried to calm him.

"Dilys…" he said again in that hopeless, despaired voice.

In that moment, the door opened and Dagonet entered, followed by a slight woman.

Isolde gazed at her and felt that she was someone special.

"Dilys?" she asked uncertainly.

The woman nodded and sank down by Isolde's side. Her long pale hair, up in a dissolving braid, half-obscured a pretty, if ashen face with wide, afraid dark eyes.

"May I have a moment alone with him?"

Isolde nodded and Dagonet handed the tea pot to her. She accepted it with a grateful smile, then brushed strands of Bedivere's hair lovingly out of his eyes.

They shut the door softly, then Isolde turned to Dagonet, a silent question in her eyes.

"Her name is Dilys," Dagonet said softly, "which means genuine, and there could be no person in the world, that is more genuine than her."

"Why have I never met her before?"

***

"Because she is shy and likes to remain inconspicuous." It was a new voice, and surprised, Isolde turned around to Percival, who was standing there with an inscrutable look on his face.

"I am not sure, Percival, if…" Dagonet started, but he was cut off by Percival.

"But I am. If there is anyone who needs to hear the stories and who deserves to hear them, it is Isolde."

Dagonet tensed up. "What do you mean, Percival, speaking in riddles as you do? She does not need to hear those stories!"

A sad light shone in Percival's eyes. "The truth, my friend, is somewhere beyond our reach."

Dagonet stared at him a moment longer, but then, with a muttered oath that was so unlike the patient giant, he turned around and disappeared around the corner.

"Isolde," Percival said, still with that strange glint in the eye.

"Let us sit down."

"Here?" Isolde asked in amazement.

Percival nodded. "It's a good place as any," he said harshly and Isolde winced.

"Forgive me," Percival said and by now Isolde could identify the strange glint in his eye as bottomless despair and an overwhelming knowledge of something, that nearly tore him apart.

She sank down next to him on the stone ground and so in the dim light of the torch, that illuminated the old stone walls, Percival started to speak.

"She is Dilys," he said, indicating the door, where Isolde had just emerged from. "But you know that. She came here as a maid of the Lady Enid."

"Enid?"

Percival nodded firmly. "Enid. She was a Roman Lady, the wife of a high-ranking Roman official, arriving at the Great Wall seven years ago. Erec," his voice was bitter, "fell in love with her."

Isolde remained silent, the parallels to Tristan and her were all too clear.

"We were young fools…Erec met up with her in the night, in silent places, abandoned hallways….he even proposed to her. We felt as if we were invincible in those days. But the Roman was suspicious and he arranged a passage for her back to Rome. Somewhere on the way to the coast…they were attacked by-"

"Saxon Raiders," Isolde finished for him, her voice heavy.

"Aye." Percival didn't seem surprised. "He told you, I presume?"

"Only that his betrothed was killed by Saxons," Isolde replied honestly.

Percival ignored her reply and went on with the story: "Enid died. Erec was heart-broken and he never looked at another woman the way he had looked at Enid. But I didn't want to tell you their story."

***

"Dylis," Isolde said softly.

"Yes. Dylis. She was Enid's maid, but she survived the attack. With grievous wounds and she still has the scars to prove it. The healers saved her life, but it was a hard battle. She lived at the fort for many years to come and from the day on she met him, she has been hopelessly devoted to Bedivere."

Percival sighed, a deep sigh and looked at Isolde.

"But you know my cousin Bedivere."

"He didn't reply to her affections in the same way, did he?" Isolde asked, already dreading the answer.

"Yes. He is in many ways like Lancelot- afraid to open his heart to a woman, lest he doesn't get hurt. And so he had shallow relationships with the barmaids, other shady figures…well, you get the picture. She, however, remained hopelessly devoted to him, but of course he hurt her with his careless flings. Another sad player in the game is Iwain, who loves Dylis, yet she won't even look at him."

"Iwain?" Isolde couldn't believe her ears.

"Yes," Percival confirmed. "He has always loved her, yet she doesn't return his love because there is no place in her heart for any other than Bedivere. And now, when Bedivere is on the way to the next world, he calls for her, for she is the only one who has been there for him. Always."

When he had finished, there was a heavy silence and tears shone in Isolde's eyes.

"But why did you tell me?" she choked finally. "What did Dagonet mean?"

Percival gazed at her and sad truth was written in his eyes. He carefully moved a strand of dark hair out of her face.

"We live in a harsh world, full of shifting shadows and ruthless violence. Great loves aren't meant to survive in our realm."

"What-" Isolde jumped to her feet and balled her hands to fists. "What do you mean to tell me?" she asked frantically.

Comprehending his words finally, she choked out: "You don't know what will happen."

He remained silent and gazed at her with those fathomless dark eyes.

Isolde backed away with wide eyes. "You don't know what will happen?" she repeated, yet this time her voice wavered and broke.

Percival got to his feet slowly and his back was bent like that of an old man, who had seen to much, had experienced too much to stand there any different than like an old, gnarled tree, exposed to too many storms. Isolde backed away even farther, until her back touched the opposite stone wall.

"I was educated in the old ways of the shamans of Sarmatia," he said slowly and his voice reverberated in the silent hallway.

"My mother moved around on the plains with me. I learned to read the signs of impending hail storms, learned to understand the ways of the guileless birds, understood the life span of a day fly, so short in our eyes yet sufficient in the eyes of nature."

He paused and didn't seem to belong to this world for a moment. His golden hair was illuminated green by the flickering glow of the torch, that shone on the mossy wall and his eyes were dark and deep, almost ominous.

"There is another world, just beyond our reach. The world of shifting ghosts, gone like grains of sand that run through the fingers of the one who thinks to have mastered the world. The phantoms whisper, an endless whisper, interwoven in the babbling of a brook, the soughing of the wind in dark forests. They tell tales of times past and of times yet to come."

***

A jolt seemed to go through Percival and his eyes snapped back to Isolde.

She was shivering, recognising the old magic, her people believed in and she was afraid.

"No!" she choked out.

Weariness stood in his eyes and the old Percival was back.

"It's not a good thing to know what the future might bring and yet not being able to do anything against it," he said heavily.

"No! I don't believe you." Frightened, Isolde looked for a way to escape.

"Don't go." Percival caught her arm. "I am sorry," he said and his voice was genuine.

"I just want you to be careful and-"

They were cut off by a pained scream, that came out of Bedivere's room. It sounded nearly inhuman. Isolde gathered her skirts up and ran as fast as she could to the door and wrenched it open.

She stopped in the doorway and a feeling of horror came over her.

Iwain stood there with eyes, that spoke of sheer madness.

Dylis was lying next to Bedivere on a blood-soaked bed. A dagger was embedded in her chest and her expression was that of peaceful longing. Isolde didn't even have to look over to Bedivere to know that he was dead.

And Iwain…she gasped as she looked in his eyes. Pure insanity and a a bottomless pain swirled in the blue depths. Malice was added to the mix when his eyes locked on hers.

"You didn't save him!" he screamed. "You didn't save him and made her take her own life!"

"NO!" The scream made its way over her lips, but he didn't appear to have heard.

"You killed her! Killed her. Killed her. Traitorous wench. Killed her," he chanted and lunged at her, the glinting death in his hand.

Miraculously, Isolde managed to evade him the first time he advanced upon her with the dagger aimed at her chest.

Panicked, she pressed against the wall. She wouldn't be able to do evade the dagger a second time, and closing her eyes, so she wouldn't see his leer, she thought of Tristan.

***

The whole world seemed to slide to an abrupt stop as a powerful voice shouted:

"STOP!"

Arthur. Isolde wrenched her eyes open and saw that the knights stormed in, led by Dagonet.

There were several horrified gasps as they took in the horrible scene.

"Isolde!" Tristan. He was the first to address the frozen Iwain.

"What did you want to do, damn you? Kill her?" he snarled and his face was distorted by the darkest anger, Isolde had ever seen on him.

With a feral snarl he launched himself at Iwain and they both toppled to the ground.

This was no game anymore. Sickened, yet through a veil in front of her eyes, Isolde watched as they rolled around on the ground.

"You fool!" Iwain ground out between clenched teeth. "It's her fault! Dylis is dead and it's her fault!"

"No!," Tristan yelled back, holding Iwain down in a death grip.

"Dylis chose her own fate, but you're about to kill the only woman I have ever loved and I won't let you do that, damn you!"

That elicited finally a soft gasp from the knights, both at Tristan's admission and the scene that was unfolding in front of them, yet they remained frozen.

A terrible hoarse yell escaped Iwain and his hands were around Tristan's neck, while the dagger glinted in his hand, ready to strike.

***

"Nooo!" Isolde screamed, finally waking up out of her rigidity. "Do something, will you?"

Her words reached the frozen knights in exactly the right moment and Dagonet, together with Bors grabbed Iwain and pulled him off Tristan.

The scout rolled on his side and coughed, sitting up. Isolde rushed to his side and helped him up.

"Thank you," he said and his calm voice was such a contradiction to the crazy circumstances they found themselves in, that all of them fell into silence.

The silence was shattered by a horrible howl, coming from Iwain, who, released by Dagonet and Bors, slowly sank to his knees.

The madness in his eyes had lessened somewhat. He seemed more lucid.

"I am sorry…I am so sorry…."

Slowly he got to his feet and limped away.

Dagonet made a move as if to follow him, but Tristan's composed voice held him back:

"Let him go."

They looked at him standing there then, how he used a gloved hand to wipe blood from his chin and repeated quietly: "Let him go. We are brothers. We should never raise a hand against each other."

There was a long, exhausted silence, then Arthur said hoarsely: "He is right."

Again they were silent and stared at each other and in the corridor, everywhere but not in Bedivere's room. Isolde clung to Tristan and he held her in such a tight grip, that she was almost suffocated.

***

Then, suddenly, as if the world had started to spin around again, there was the sound of quiet muttering.

They all turned around to Percival who had been forgotten in the turmoil.

He stood there with an absent-minded look on his face and muttered : "Didn't see it, didn't see it…"

They looked at him puzzled, but Isolde, who understood, slipped out of Tristan's grip and walked over to Percival, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"You are only human," she told him softly.

"But I should have seen what would happen," he said and his voice was so full of the tired confusion of a child that Isolde felt how tears slipped down her face.

"Percival…"

But there was no way to hold him back, and they watched as he, too, disappeared around the corner.

Another silence fell, but then Tristan said: "Come," and gathered her in his arms, walking away from the room, away from the other knights and away from Arthur.

* * *

He stopped walking when they had reached the wall-top.

It was past sundown and the world was peaceful, blue. So different from the green, hectic realm they had emerged from.

Isolde couldn't hold her tears back anymore and she clung to Tristan's tunic, deeply inhaled his scent of forest and nature and cried.

He held her tightly and didn't say anything.

"Never die," Isolde whispered hoarsely. "Promise me…never die, never die, never die…"

Tristan didn't say a word, but pulled her to his body and kissed the top of her head.

"Never die…" Her voice was but a broken whisper. "Never die…"

They stayed there for a long time: two dark silhouettes against the indigo night, lone figures in the star-spangled darkness, while the moon shone on the land and its pale light smudged the fine line between that, which was real and the infinite world beyond.

* * *

_tbc...oh, and when they speak of "the fever", they mean Influenza, but this word was first used in England in 1734 (at least that's what Wikipedia says (=)  
_


	37. A Silk Thread

_Hi! Sorry, I couldn't update yesterday or the day before because some things happened, thus the update is today (= I hope you don't mind._

_Thanks a lot for your kind reviews! You're all truly wonderful! Thank you, **Rhysel**, **Amy, ILuvOdie, Lairiel **and **Rhanon Brodie!**_

_I hope you like this chapter, too. The next update will be soon._

_-Sachita (=_

_P.S.: What do you think of the chapter title? I am not sure if I am happy with it^^  
_

**

* * *

37. A Silk Thread**

*****  
**

They buried Bedivere on the first day of the new moon. Winter was approaching and so it was hard to dig a grave in the rock-hard earth.

"Even diggin' a grave is difficult," Bors cursed.

"This just shows how wrong it all is," Dagonet said sadly and Bors stopped digging for a second to give his gruff assent to his friend's words.

A slight drizzle had come up, when they laid Bedivere and his Lady to their final rest.

In an impulsive action, Galahad drew his sword.

"To Kay and Gaheris! To Erec! And to Bedivere and Dilys, an infinite love!"

But the harsh wind, that had come up, wrenched the words from his mouth and plucked them to pieces.

In an unpleasant way moved, the knights looked at Galahad, whose young face was still red from yelling. His curls were tousled by the sharp gust of air and it was to them almost as if the wind was taunting him, mocking his gallant words.

Rendered nearly helpless by a sudden, inexplicable fear, Isolde raised her eyes to look at Percival, who chose that very moment to look at her also. Looking into his eyes was like taking a plunge into darkness and Isolde exhaled sharply.

Percival looked away.

* * *

Mere days later, the golden-haired knight had disappeared.

It came to Isolde's attention one day, whilst she was just on her way over to Vanora, who was, together with Branwaine, preparing the tavern for a new evening.

Newcomers were expected to arrive that evening, traders coming from the far Southern Coast, who delivered the long-awaited rations, accompanied by the much-needed reinforcements and regular foot-troops. There was a hectic activity going on, since the arrival of the reinforcements and regular troops also meant the departure of some of the old Roman troops. Many of them looked caught between laughter and tears at leaving this place, yet Isolde could understand them only too well.

With the day of the knights' discharge coming closer at a steady pace, she, too, felt that change was in the air. If it was to be a change for the better or a change for the worse, she couldn't have said. Percival's words hovered over her head like a vulture, ready to strike, ready to kill. The nightmares had worsened again, but now the Roman, Marcellus Aurelius was accompanied by hands, just simple, plain, long-fingered hands, stretching out to grasp her wrists and drawing her in a never-ending darkness.

She always awoke trashing and clawing hysterically at her wrists, hence Tristan had taken to holding her close in the nights.

So caught up was she in her musings, that only the harsh, acrid smell of the forge wrenched her out of her stupor.

"Isolde," a young voice called from behind her, and she saw Three, Vanora's second-eldest daughter, a scrawny thing of eleven years and a head full of dark curls, complete with a mischievous smile, run up to meet her.

"Yes?" Isolde asked, turning around to the girl.

"Did yeh see Percival 'round?" she asked, panting.

"No, why?"

"'E's not to be found anywhere. Pa's told me t'ask yeh…" she trailed off.

Isolde shook her head with a little frown.

"Thankee," Three said and disappeared around the corner.

***

Shaking her head, Isolde continued her walk to Vanora's tavern. When she came around the corner, she heard the loud voice of the fiery red-head, apparently giving out good advice:

"It's necessary to wash 'em from head to toe at least twice a week or you won't be able to stand 'em."

A giggle. Branwaine.

Isolde entered and the two women greeted her with a smile and a nod.

"You have come to the right time, Isolde, saving me from the maternal advice of our dear Vanora," Branwaine smiled, casting a teasing look at the older woman.

"Aye…" Vanora accepted the jibe with a half-smile, but it was absent-minded and she looked rather concerned.

"Isolde," she asked suddenly. "Did yeh see Percival today?"

"No," Isolde answered bemused. "Your daughter asked me the same question moments ago, but I do not know. Why does everyone ask me?"

"Perhaps," Vanora answered seriously, withdrawing a piece of parchment from her dark apron, "because this is addressed to you. A lad gave it to me just an hour ago. Said that Percival had given it to him. 'E got a coin for it."

Isolde automatically took the offered parchment and turned it over.

"What does it say?" she asked quietly.

"I have no idea." Vanora laughed humourlessly. "Do I look as if I could read?"

"I can't read either," Isolde admitted with a smile.

"Ask Arthur," Branwaine suggested and looked over to Vanora, who gave a consenting nod.

Isolde felt how the fear began to crawl up at her again.

"I will go ask him." With a short, almost jerky nod she was gone, leaving Branwaine and Vanora to stare after her in bemusement.

* * *

The forest's dense green mass only allowed small spots of light to fall through the treetops. The horse's hooves were muted by the thick moss, that covered the ground. Tristan allowed Byaczt a moment's rest, as he looked for signs of broken branches and damaged leaves.

There! The hawk's shrill cry confirmed his assessment and he continued his journey into deeper, nebulous paths. Even the sun was too weak to penetrate the thick mists of autumn in this area and so the trees' green silence soon muted all sound.

Tristan crossed a small stream, its water was black in the gloom.

Finally he came upon the one, he had been searching for. A horse was tied haphazardly to a small, sickly-looking sapling. It was Percival's brown mare and Tristan recognised the proud steed immediately. Silently, he dismounted, tying Byaczt to a similar sapling and the horses rubbed their noses together, as the familiar smell of the other hit them.

Tristan meanwhile stepped around a tall oak and stopped in front of the man, who was sitting on the mossy ground, apparently deep in thought.

"Percival," he said evenly.

The other Sarmatian got to his feet quickly and his hand instinctively wandered to his sword.

"Percival," Tristan said again, before Percival could make a move.

Slowly, recognition dawned in the dark, haunted eyes.

"Tristan. How did you find me?" Percival laughed humourlessly. "Well," he added, "I should not ask. It is your duty to find me, is it not?"

Tristan eyed him impassively. This behaviour was as unlike Percival as it could get.

"What are you doing?" he asked coolly.

Then, despite Tristan's usual ways to keep to his cool, he was startled, when Percival's hands suddenly shot out and grabbed his upper arms harshly.

"I have to find the truth," Percival whispered harshly. He seemed hectic and almost feverish, as his dark eyes darted about, full of shifting shadows and an almost mad light.

"I have to find the truth!" Almost a scream.

Tristan freed himself from the harsh grip and rubbed his arms. "What truth?" he asked sharply. "What kind of madness has befallen you, brother?"  
"Léleks…" Percival breathed and his voice had an ethereal quality. Tristan, contrary to his usual stoic countenance, shivered slightly in the sudden unnnatural breeze, that had sprung up.

The Léleks! The Sarmatians believed in the existence of those vengeful Wind sprites, long-dead warriors, who were intent on getting their revenge on every living being.

"I have to find the truth…about life and death," Percival suddenly said and some reason had returned to his speech. "I have to find out about the Léleks…"

His dark eyes pleading, he looked at Tristan, who stepped back: "Go! Brother…"

"Thank you," Percival said and a pained look crossed his features.

"Farewell, Tristan! This or the next life!"

"Farewell." Tristan looked to the mossy ground and only when the hoof beats had been muted by the thick silence, he added quietly: "Percival."

* * *

"What do you mean, you can't read?" Arthur eyed Isolde in frustration.

"I can't read, that is what I mean;" Isolde said in exasperation. "The Gauls don't use these signs you need to write your spoken words down, so there is no need for me to learn reading."

Arthur looked up in disbelief. "Isolde, there is every reason to learn reading! Even my knights- well, at least Percival- have tried to learn how to read and write. Besides," he narrowed his green eyes in suspicion, "you sent Merlin a message, didn't you?"

Isolde coloured fiercely. "I drew my message," she admitted sheepishly.

"Arthur," she continued, when he raised a sceptical eyebrow, "please, read it to me."

Arthur carefully unfolded the piece of parchment and a look of confusion passed his eyes.

"What does it say?"

"Remember, there is another world. Be careful. P."

Arthur looked at Isolde, who had paled quickly upon hearing these words. "Isolde?" he prompted.

***

But before she could answer, the door was wrenched open and Bors stormed in with his usual lack of tact concerning closed doors. Arthur was just about to reprimand him, when he caught the look on the knight's face.

"Arthur," Bors was practically snarling. "The damned scout has returned. He found Percival."

With that, he stormed back out. Arthur exchanged a quizzical look with Isolde, then they followed Bors to the Great Hall, where the other knights had already assembled.

Arthur took his usual seat and Isolde sank down on the empty place next to Tristan, who was sipping his mead placidly, a contradiction to the glowers directed at him.

She squeezed his hand under the table and he squeezed back, directing a short sideways glance at her from under his bangs. She recoiled a little at the look of resignation that was written in his eyes. Whatever his message was, it could not be pleasant.

"Tristan."  
At the sound of Arthur's voice, the scout looked up and addressed his commander coolly:

"Arthur."  
"Well, what happened?" The slightest hint of impatience crept in Arthur's voice.

"I found Percival," the scout said plainly.  
"And he let him go off again," Bors raged. Arthur directed a sharp look in his direction and the knight fell silent.

"Tristan. You surely had your reasons."

"I did."

"Well, what were they then?" A slight hint of amusement, like the dip of a water skeeter in uncharted territories shot briefly across the scout's features and Galahad bristled at the fact, that his question evidently amused Tristan.

***

But then, all amusement gone, Tristan replied seriously:

"Percival looks for the Léleks and the reasons for life itself. There was no way to hold him back." He let his dark gaze rest on every one of them and some of them moved in discomfort.

"None of you could have held him back." His voice was firm and so they did not object, save for Arthur.

"What am I to say then? My knight got lost because he looked for the reason for life itself?"

This almost satirical question was completely out of character for Arthur and thus his knights just stared at him silently.  
"Say he died of the fever," Dagonet suggested softly.

Arthur held the giant knight's gaze for a moment, then he dropped his head with a soft nod and said hoarsely: "I am sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Gawain advised perceptively. "We are all a little tightly-wound at the moment."  
Bors abruptly stood up and stormed out. The door shut behind him with a loud thud.

Arthur sighed and shook his head. "I will call this briefing to an end now. Tristan, you must be exhausted. Rest and then come to me tomorrow for the details."

Tristan nodded and rose, Isolde followed. His presence was still something of a shield for her, and after Percival's disconcerting words and even more disconcerting message, she felt as if she had to hold on to him even tighter.

***

When the scout was already half-way to the door, Arthur suddenly shot up in his seat.

"Tristan!" he called impulsively and Tristan turned around, an inquiring look on his face.  
"And…there is no way to get him back?"

Arthur's despair was almost palpable, but Tristan, who had ever believed in telling the truth in his honest, sometimes brutally so, way, simply said lowly: "No."

Isolde's last impression of Arthur was how he sat down and whispered: "Another one lost."

He stared at his hands. Then the big doors swung shut and she was left on the corridor, alone with Tristan.

He looked at her unreadably for a moment and then turned away.

Isolde didn't allow him to shut her out, though. She caught his hand and got another of his impenetrable stares, but she did not let it bother her.

"Come," she said firmly.

"Whereto?" The question was impassive.

"I can't tell yet."

He allowed her to lead him through the maze of corridors to the exit of the building and to the stables. His strange disposition almost frightened her a little. He was like moulded metal in her grip, ready to be formed as she wished, but that was not Tristan's way.

Tristan's role had ever been being the watchful hawk on the lead bird's right side, always alert, invisibly pulling the strings in the background, firm in his assessments and constant in his decisions. Not like that.

"Tristan," she said and part of her unease must have been audible because he gave her an inquiring look. She quickly shook her head, a silent no and halted her steps in front of Byaczt's stable.

"Byaczt?" he questioned, still that odd tone to his voice.

She nodded shortly, almost jerkily. Tensely, Isolde watched as he saddled Byaczt up, an action he never allowed anyone else. She feared to say something wrong that would put them even more on edge, so she decided to refrain from mentioning Percival's message and his cryptic prophesy.

After Tristan had finished preparing Byaczt for the ride, he lifted her easily up in front of him.

***

They passed the gate without speaking and afterwards Tristan urged Byaczt into a light canter. The hoofbeats echoed in the star-adorned silence. There was, it seemed to Isolde, no one there save them and the sky, which seemed to stretch on endlessly.

She couldn't tell the sky from the ground, it was all of a dark, deep blue that encompassed the whole island. It was cold and their breaths left white clouds in the air.

Yet the stars were bright and for once, no mist hid them from view, as it was often the case.

Tristan urged Byaczt into an even quicker canter and there was no ground beneath them, nor a sky above them, they just raced into a deep blue something while the occasional bright light of a star flashed by.

Forgetting about the earlier tense atmosphere, Isolde stretched her hands out as if she could catch those bright, radiantl passers-by…the wild ride abruptly came to an end, as they stopped on a wide hill. Long grass-blades danced their silent dance on this hill, while they were affectionately tousled by a soft breeze and it felt to Isolde almost as if they were intruding on a private love scene.

Yet Tristan did not dismount, and stunned, Isolde stayed where she was.

"Tristan?" she asked hesitatingly and her voice echoed strangely.

"I should have stopped him. The others were right." Tristan's voice was filled with self-loathing.  
"You did the right thing."

He laughed bitterly, shortly and it reverberated in his chest. "Who says that?"

"I."

"You?"

Isolde half-turned around to him. "Am I not enough?"

"You are more than enough," he breathed in her ear and she shivered, as his beard stubbles tickled her ear.

***

"We could dismount."

"We could," he agreed and a hint, a suggestion of humour was in his voice.

She was the first to dismount, but he followed suit.

A surge of her old playfulness overwhelmed her, as she stared at the moonlight-flooded land, that stretched out in front of her in the forms of hillocks and bigger hills. A slight chuckle escaped her and she began to run, there in the star-spangled solitude.

"Isolde!"

He was advancing, catching up with her, but she could not let him do that and so she ran even faster. With a leap, he reached her and pulled her in his arms. Not missing a beat, Isolde pushed him to the ground and shrieked, as the ground suddenly moved under her.

Laughing like children, they tumbled down the hill and fell in the soft grass, that grew everywhere.

"You are crazy!" Tristan accused with a rare laugh.

"_You must be going crazy!"_ The words of a mad, old woman flashed through her head, but she brushed them aside and replied easily: "So are you."

His amber eyes were firmly focused on her face and he bent down to kiss her:

"Isolde…"

"Tristan…" Laces were untied, clothes cast aside. But it was a tender love, a love much like the serene beauty of the stars, kings and queens above.

However, eventually they had to return and upon seeing the fort, all problems came back to haunt them. Percival, who was on an odyssey to discover life's meaning, Iwain, ever equipped with a snarl and a dark glower in their vicinity, the daily problems they faced-…- but for the moment they were alright. For the moment they were content, hanging onto a thread. Yet the thread was made of silk and inside, the structures were being damaged by the weight hanging on it, stretching to fit the new demands of holding it all in balance.

Isolde wondered when it was going to snap.

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_tbc_


	38. Forever Tomorrow

_Hi everyone! A new chapter for you- I hope you like it. Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews, __**Rhysel, CarolinaJuliette, Lairiel, ILuvOdie, gymgurl **__and __**Irish Maid! **_

_I realised today, yet again (=, that I am really, really bad at maths. The final mission of the knights takes place in autumn, right? I miscalculated completely. If you take early autumn (say the end of august) and add five months, it is not late autumn but winter. And the trees still had leaves in the film, so it can't be winter. Anyway, I changed "five months" in the last chapter to "two months", so it hopefully makes more sense now. Argh. So, yeah, I guess I deserve my maths grades..._

_The next update should be soon!_

_-Sachita^^_

_

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_

**38. Forever Tomorrow**

*******

It was late autumn and the wind outside brought the cold of winter with it. They hadn't got word from Percival, but none of them really thought, that he would return. So the topic was avoided altogether, like they buried so many things in the cold, unfeeling soil of silence.

They had to bury more than those words, though. Iwain died on a mission. He had blindly charged the Woads, not to be held back, ignoring Arthur's orders and the other knights' shouts. He had taken a lot of them down before being overwhelmed. There had been no way to save him, yet Arthur had blamed himself while the knights had looked on grimly. "He wanted to die," Tristan had said in his short way.  
"That doesn't make it any better!" Galahad had screamed, only held back by Gawain's arm while Tristan had looked on with hooded eyes and a grim expression.

Nevertheless, life had to go on, and the day of their discharge approached steadily until it was -

"Only a day now," Galahad chanted, setting his ale mug down on the rickety table, effectively wrenching Isolde out of her thoughts and at the same time ending her unspoken sentence. They were sitting in the tavern, all of them save for Tristan who was out scouting but due to return any minute. She looked at Galahad, who grinned at her happily. Ale dripped down in his dark beard and Isolde watched, at the same disgusted and fascinated, how the single drops glimmered golden in the flickering light of the fireplace. Galahad must have noticed her stare for he wiped the droplets away with a small, embarrassed grin.

"So you are looking forward to it?" Isolde asked the youngest knight, the one she had, in all the years she had known the knights, had the least contact with.

Galahad used a dirty hand to wipe over his face. "I am ! Immensely so!"

"What is it like?" Isolde asked and she couldn't hide the slight waver of uncertainty that made her voice tremble.

Galahad didn't seem to notice it. "Oh! Sarmatia is the most beautiful country you will ever set your eyes upon!" His eyes glowed happily. "Plains of gold and green, a wide sapphire sky, the rash beat of the horses' hooves, the delicious food..."

Isolde smiled at his enthusiasm, which was so different of Tristan's wistful, almost melancholy description of the knights' homeland.

"Why are you asking?" Galahad suddenly asked curiously, turning his head to look at her enquiringly.

"I am probably going to go with you," Isolde replied quietly.

"Oh!" Galahad's eyes lit up. "That is marvellous!" Then his face fell. "But I reckon you will go with Tristan, won't you?"

Isolde stifled a smile and nodded. "Of course."

"That is too bad...Tristan is from the area around the Silk Road, situated far in the East...They use a strange dialect and no one understands them. They eat spicy soups and cook their enemies' bones in them." He shook his head and Isolde was unsure if he was serious or not.

"Shut up, pup," a deep voice growled and someone cuffed Galahad on the head. Tristan, who proceeded to sit down next to Isolde.

Galahad laughed in amusement, even when faced with one of Tristan's dark glowers.

"I was merely telling the truth to Isolde here," he replied, ducking, when another swipe was directed his way.

***

"You encountered the Silk Road traders sometimes, didn't you, Tristan?" Gawain asked from the opposite side of the table. Galahad looked a little insecure. Asking Tristan things about his mysterious past was never a good idea, for the knights had learned that he didn't like to talk about it.

But Tristan didn't seem particularly perturbed. Instead he put an arm around Isolde's waist, and, pulling her closer to him, he replied evenly: "We did. They sold gold and silver and the finest earthenware you can imagine."

For a moment, the scout was silent, remembering sun-dusted days and the sun-bronzed traders with their narrow black eyes, long rows of mules passing through the yellowed grass-blades, led by their taciturn owners, ornamented saddles heavily-laden with mysterious-looking burdens....They brought the scent of saffron and incense with them, reminders that there were other countries out there, just beyond the pale horizon....children with excited dark eyes and wide smiles running to the village: "They have arrived, they have arrived..." The flickering of a candle on a neighbour table chased the memory away, it was dispelled like the last vestiges of sun and hard labour before the cool evening claimed a land.

"Why are you asking?" he inquired sharply, causing Gawain to choke on his mead.

"No particular reason," the long-haired knight replied quickly. "We just heard that Isolde here will come with us."

When Tristan looked at the two blankly, Galahad clarified: "She will come with us. Home."

_Home_...What was home? Home was a bleak, empty hut. Home was a deserted fireplace with dust playing in a corner of a dark tent, bringing with it fleeting memories of the laughter of a little sister, the loving arms of a mother and the deep voice of a father...flashes of white teeth and glimpses of dark eyes, while you spent your time waiting, in the deserted tent, waiting for the Romans to arrive, to deliver you from that hell, that nagging pain that had long since stopped to drive tears to your eyes , that- oh the irony!- members of the very same Nation inflicted on you. Home was nothing but an empty memory, all destroyed by the gleam of a sword in a harsh sunlight and not even Isolde's warm touch on his hand could save him.

***

Feeling at a loss for words, Tristan nodded once to his brother knights and got up. Galahad and Gawain didn't show signs of surprise, they had got used to his abrupt behaviour over the years. However, Isolde got up quickly to go after him, dark hair bobbing on her shoulders and gliding over her back in unruly waves, while the hem of her simple red linen dress dragged in the dust.

She gathered her skirts up and ran after the scout, for his steps were quick and it was easy to lose him in the hustle and bustle of the evening. She passed old women, wrapped in dark, rough shawls, little grubby children with surprisingly white teeth that formed a harsh contrast against their dirty faces, hectic traders and stern-faced Roman soldiers with their dark hair and olive skin. She passed dark alleys and foul-smelling pits, where some hens scratched in the mud.

Isolde caught sight of him again after running past two shifty-looking young men with long, tangled hair. He was standing on the wall, looking over the countryside and Isolde's breath caught at his desolate posture. Shoulders slightly down, hands bracing his weight as he leaned against the cool stone, touching it with his head. It was a sign of weakness that Tristan would normally never show. Her heart plummeted to her stomach and Isolde quickly pushed through the crowd, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the figure up on the wall.

"Look at 'im- it's one of them fearless knights;" a woman's voice next to her griped.

"Aye," another one agreed. "Not so fearless now, is he?"

That did it. Furious, Isolde spun around and faced the two old women who backed away a little when faced with the blazing fire in the woman's green eyes.

"That man," Isolde spat and heard how the Gallic accent tinted her words, "has given fifteen years of his life to protect _you_! And that is how you thank him?"

The stunned-looking women opened their mouths to reply, when Isolde cut them off with an angry gesture: "No! I do not wish to hear a word from you. None of your apologies, none of our mockeries for this man will always be greater than you could ever hope to be!"

Isolde was out of breath, when she finished. Such fury was unlike her and she knew it. She felt almost ashamed when she looked at the pale faces of the old women, but then her gaze strayed over to the lone figure and she knew what her duties were. With a last, proud nod she passed the woman and walked up on the wall to the man she loved.

The old women watched her go with an expression caught between shame and realisation, as they watched the young dark-haired lass make her way over to the lone knight. "Well, at least he got someone to care for him." But Isolde didn't hear it. She was already on her way over to Tristan.

***

He was aware of her long before he lifted his head to look at her, both indignation and gratefulness written on his sharp features.

"Isolde," he acknowledged her and again, there was that tone in his voice, which reminded her of moulded metal. Not his voice and then it hit her. Exhaustion. He was sounding exhausted as if he was yearning for a long cold sleep, pining for a deep dreamless rest. Quickly, she suppressed the frigid shudder that made her tremble.

"Tristan," she answered, dread apparent in her voice. "Tristan..." Once again, her self-confidence wavered, but she took his arm and led him to a secluded part of the Wall.

"I love you," she said simply. He stared at her, surprise clearly written on his features. "I know," he replied slowly. She smiled tiredly. "I just wanted you to know."

He stared at her for a moment longer, then the exhaustion hushed across his face again. Tristan sat down heavily, leaning against the wall and stretching out his long legs in front of him. She sat down next to him without hesitation.

"What is it?" she asked softly.

Instead of replying, he pointed to the people still busily moving about in the steadily approaching dawn. "Look at them," he breathed derisively. "Look at them."

Isolde looked and all that she saw were tired faces, exhausted after a long day spent working themselves to the bone. And there were lined faces, full of wisdom and memories of a long life.

"I don't understand," she told him simply.

He hissed in frustration and hit the wall behind them with his fist. His hand was so tightly clenched, that she could see the veins. His knuckles were white and she carefully uncurled his fist. He allowed her to do so without resistance.

"No," he said finally hoarsely. "Look at them, look at this place." He made a wide hand motion, including the far cemetery. "Full of broken dreams: this place, those people. And so they try to reach for the stars. All in vain."

Isolde looked at him how he sat there, slightly hunched over, amber eyes keen as he surveyed the people, dark hair slightly falling into his eyes. She brushed some strands out of his face and he leaned into her touch, closing his eyes as he did so in a rare show of vulnerability.

"The others are celebrating," she stated slowly, her inquiry clear.

"I have no reason to celebrate," he muttered darkly, his eyes still closed.

"Why?"

"They are celebrating that they can return home." Tristan paused and sat up, opening his eyes.

"I have no home," he said and his voice was devoid of emotion. "I only remember an empty fireplace."

"We could fill it with life," Isolde mumbled and said louder: "We could fill it with life. A child, maybe two, maybe three...A tent and horses...Spring on those wide plains you call home..."

Tristan looked almost wistful for a moment, and then he shuddered as if struck by an invisible breeze.

"If it were possible...if you are right..." he mumbled, almost to himself and then his face abruptly transformed to such a pain-filled grimace, that Isolde felt the sting of his pain and disillusion in her own heart and it hurt so much, that she nearly bent over.

"Tristan!" It was but a weak sob, and she clutched him tightly as if he were a tree trunk afloat in a raging sea and she a castaway, lost to the workings of a greater force. But he held her just as tight, so the question was who was the castaway and who the tree trunk?

But they did not care to seek for an answer. A long time passed in which neither of them was able to form a coherent sentence, and when they finally, slowly, hesitatingly, released their tight grip on each other, they were both panting as if they had just attempted to climb an insurmountable mountain.

***

Then there was silence. A silence, in which the last bronze light of the sun illuminated the buildings and set the stones of the old Wall aflame. Red clouds danced together with flocks of birds to celebrate the glorious sunset while everyone, human and animal alike, yearned for a new day.

Not everyone did. In fact Isolde wished that this day would never end, that the uncertainty of a new day wouldn't assault her again and again. She wanted that moment to last forever, whilst she was sitting next to Tristan, her hand loosely entwined with his.

Eventually he started to speak and his voice was hoarse from lack of use and tired from lack of...she couldn't have said. Again it was that boneless exhaustion and she gripped his hand tighter. "Years ago," he began slowly, "I sat here on that very Wall and held no hope for anything. My life seemed bleak now that I look back on those days. There was nothing to look forward to, just an endless repetition of the same grey days, worsened by the blood we shed, the tears we shed, even if I preferred to shed them alone."

It was the most honest thing she had ever heard him say, and she knew that it had to be hard for him, so she came just that little bit closer and put her hand on his leg in a show of silent support.

He gazed at her with his inscrutable mask on, the dark eyes fathomless.

"Then you came along and filled my life with sound, with colour, with even joy, an emotion that seemed so alien to me, so foreign, so rarely experienced. And tomorrow we can finally start our life together, so there is no reason not to celebrate. And yet," he exhaled sharply, "yet there is that shadow, that looms on the horizon...as if it tried to reach out for us, as if it tried to get to us..."

In an act of desperate bravery, now that she knew, that he had the dark feeling of foreboding as well, Isolde whispered: "It won't be able to get us." She paused and searched for words.

"I am pregnant, Tristan." The words sounded foreign to her own ears, as if it had not been her who had spoken them. "I am pregnant." She repeated them, just to assure, that it had been indeed her speaking them.

He, who was never shocked, looked up in heavy surprise. "You mean- you- you-"

Stammering was even more out of character for Tristan and she smiled wanly, helping him out.

"-are with child. Yes."

***

He started violently and she caught his arm before he could topple off the Wall.

"Is it so bad?" she asked hesitatingly.

"NO!" he very nearly shouted. "No," he repeated quieter and traced the outline of her face with a trembling finger. "This is the best news I have had for a while," he mumbled gently. "How far along are you?"

"The midwife I asked, said, that I still have seven moons to go. I came to her because I wasn't sure if it could really be possible."

"We are going to have a child," he repeated and suddenly a huge smile broke out on his face. His teeth gleamed in the dim light.

Abruptly, he got up and she stared up at him, badly startled by this strange behaviour.

"Tristan?"

"You need to rest now," he told her firmly, and even though she was glad that his voice held his trademark steadiness, she couldn't help but protest. "I am pregnant, Tristan, not sick!"

He stared at her for a moment, then he shrugged and smirked. "No. But Vanora always has to rest when she is with child. Bors said that it is necessary-"

"-but Vanora is then in another stage of pregnancy-" she shrieked, but he ignored her and went on.

"-and for once, I will pay heed to his words and do as he says."

"Why are you listening to Bors out of all people?"

He scooped her up in his arms and she finally stopped protesting, relaxing in his arms that had always held that promise of security and safety to her. He had such a strong, yet tender grip.

Tenderly, he showered her with kisses and she giggled, as he hit a sensitive spot, right under her collarbone. "Tristan..." she protested lazily, but he cut her off with a kiss and she melted right there in his arms.

"We will go up now," he told her and carried her up to his chambers. He pushed the door open with a foot and put her down on the bed.

***

Suddenly, the door swung open, only seconds after they had entered.

A clearly drunken Lancelot stood there, staring at them.

"What are you doing here?" Tristan growled, his eyes blazing with a dark anger. His hand strayed to his dagger, but Lancelot seemed oblivious to it.

"I was- was-" he slurred, completely unfazed by Tristan's angered expression, "jus' lookin' for you. So t'morrow we're goin' to be free men, aren't we? Free men..." For a moment, he sobered and looked almost as if he was going to cry. "Free men. Free men," he repeated numbly.

Tristan looked at him wordlessly for a second, before said: "Lancelot, get out."

"But-"Lancelot protested and then he laughed, a sound, that rang somewhere between despair and hilarity. "But..."

Tristan took his shoulder in a firm grip and steered him to his room, leaving the door to his own room open. Over his shoulder, he said to Isolde: "I'll be right back."

"Yes," she replied softly and watched the knights' backs. Even though her announcing that she was pregnant, had brought the topic of the bad feeling that assaulted them whenever they thought of the future to a stop, it had certainly not chased the dark clouds away.

If only...if only...everything would be well. She prayed to every god she could think of that all would be going alright.

Light footsteps signalled Tristan's return. Isolde quickly forced a smile on her face, but she already knew that he would see right through it.

Tristan sat down next to her and put a cool hand to the side of her face.

"Rest now," he said. "Rest."

Isolde felt how the blanket of weariness was drawn over her, and she caught Tristan's hand as he adjusted the blanket some more. "Stay," she mumbled softly.

He stilled in his movements and she peered at him through her eyelashes. "I am staying," he said firmly. "Now and forever." She smiled at him and entwined her fingers with his. Tristan stayed at the bedside and watched his Lady sleep.

****

"How long is forever?" Tristan mused quietly. The shrill shriek of his hawk answered and he strode over to the window, pushing the animal skin that covered it out of the way to gaze at the pale, waxy moon. Again the hawk shrieked. "You are right," he told her. "Forever might be no longer than the heart-beat of a mouse."

As if to concur, the deadly hawk swept down to sink her talons into an unsuspecting prey, effectively ending another mouse's life.

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_tbc_


	39. Whatever May Come

_Hi! Sorry for not updating. I am not at home at the moment, so I can only update in bits (=Thank you for your reviews,** gymgurl, Lairiel, Rhysel **and **CarolinaJuliette!** You are amazing, thank you so much. I hope you like this chapter and if you do (or don't ) please tell me! The next update should be by the end of this week._

_Disclaimer : The movie King Arthur is owned by Jerry Bruckheimer. No copyright infringement intended._

_-Sachita (=_

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**39. Whatever May Come  
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*****  
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Darkness still covered the land, as the hunched-over figure of the man slowly started to move, gently disentangling his fingers from the woman's and finally sitting up. Tristan groaned as he felt the dull pain of stiff muscles throbbing along with his movements- an unpleasant side effect of a night spent in a chair next to Isolde's bed. He had not intended for it to happen, and annoyed, he shook his head, trying to clear the last vestiges of sleep from his mind.

His gaze strayed back to Isolde and he regarded her with an affectionate look, carefully moving some dark strands of hair out of her face, taking care not to wake her. Tenderly he ran a finger over her face; over her forehead, the slightly freckled nose- she disliked those few, pale freckles a lot, she had told him once- over her well-shaped lips and finally down to her belly. A child. Their child.

He smiled at the thought, yet it was a short-lived smile and all too soon his face transformed to stone with a bitter-set mouth. Seven moons until she was due- a long time. A lot of things could happen in seven months, he had needed a long time to understand it, but life was as inconstant as the panicked flight of a bird in face of the predator, as accidental as the hungry firebrand caused by a careless blacksmith and as bittersweet as a sunset in the mist.

Plus those premonitions he had had for some time now- and he knew Isolde had them too even though she tried hard to hide it- …He sighed, letting the thought trail off and got up, moving to the window. "What is that you want? "He asked quietly in an intent whisper. "Is it my life? Is it that what you are asking for?" There was no reply but he had expected none. He knew what the trees whispered, had heard his name in their breathy murmur, their silent conversations in a quick breeze.

They had whispered other names before, but rarely his, and now they did it with such a vengeance that he feared he might have angered the deities of the Woods in some way. Even the shrill shriek of his hawk confirmed his doubts; there was a sense of warning and urgency in her cries that he had never heard on his oldest friend before.

Tristan gazed at the pale green line that slowly started to become more pronounced on the horizon, the first herald of a new day. No. He would not heed the trees' quiet whispers this time. And with a single firm nod he drew the animal skin back to cover the window and turned around to Isolde.

***

She was awake and watched him with sleepy green eyes. He crossed the short distance to the bed and sat down next to her.

"Do you have to go already?" She yawned and stretched her arms out over her body. She looked like a goddess to him in that moment as she sleepily blinked up at him, green eyes not completely open and dark hair spread out on the pillow like a bird's wings.

"I am afraid so," he replied hoarsely, clearing his throat. "We are riding out at the first light of dawn for it is at midday that we are supposed to meet the bishop and escort him back to the fort."  
"Stay safe." She sat up and the look in her eyes spoke suddenly of fear. "Promise me that you will stay safe!"

"What kind of fool," he whispered, coming closer, "would I be if I let myself be killed on the day of our freedom?"- "Oh," she lifted her eyebrows, responding to the slight teasing in the last part of his sentence, "one never knows."

"Woman..." he growled playfully and pulled her close whilst she resisted his grip and tried to capture his lips instead. He let her win in the end-at least that was what he told himself. The truth was that she knew his sensitive spots like no other and she knew where to touch him to provoke a reaction.

"Isolde," he said in a slightly reprimanding tone, "we can't keep that up. I have to leave."

She beamed up at him and pulled him down in another fierce kiss. Then she whispered in his ear, all amusement gone: "Come back to me. In one piece."

Tristan was once again reminded of the trees' whispers. "I will," he breathed almost defiantly, "I will."

* * *

It was, as Arthur had predicted, late midday when they saw the bishop's carriage approaching in the distance, accompanied by Roman legionnaires.

"Ah, as promised, the bishop's carriage," Gawain said, looking expectantly.

"Our freedom, Bors," Galahad added.

The large man grinned. "Mm. I can almost taste it."

"And your passage to Rom , Arthur," Dagonet concluded, effectively tainting their joy. Losing Arthur to Rome was something they had always dreaded and now it were just mere days until they all had to say their good-byes.

Tristan, however, looked away during their exchange with a snarl. Fools- they were not free yet. What would they do when they were free anyhow? This life had tainted them with its bloodshed, they reeked off the blood and they would never be able to get rid of its taste, its scent- it was foolhardy and stupid to even think about it. And when they finally got their discharge papers, he would not cheer. This freedom the Romans finally offered to them was but a ruse. They would always be haunted men. But now he had Isolde. They were going to have a child, so, did it matter if the Romans' freedom was real or just an illusion?

No, it did not, he decided for himself, all the while combing through the Woods with sharp amber eyes. He recognised them then, blue shadows, eerily apt at adapting to the green gloom that surrounded them. He yelled his warning to Arthur in the same moment as one of the carriage's escorts, a Roman legionnaire, fell from his horse, a dark-shafted arrow deeply embedded in his chest.

Arthur nodded at them and yelling their battle cry, they charged at the blue-painted forest people. Tristan fought them without remorse, cold and calculating he ended their lives with an elegant deadliness. He laughed death in the face, laughed at the eerie whispers of the trees.

A frigid fire burned in his eyes as he finally surveyed the scene around him. Arthur had a Woad kneeling in front of him, Excalibur at his throat. However, Tristan knew Arthur far too well to even consider the possibility that his commander would kill the man in cold blood. And he was right for Arthur let the blue devil escape mere moments later. Tristan snorted in distaste. These ghosts of the forest had made his Lady stay with them against her will, they had killed many of his brothers often ruthlessly and needlessly brutal so they deserved nothing less than death. No one harmed his Lady without him having a say in the matter.

He mounted Byaczt, who neighed, rearing his head up. Absentminded he patted his neck and brought his knuckles to his mouth, realising that he was bleeding. He took a closer look. A knife wound. But when could he have got it? He recalled the battle in his mind and finally saw the distorted grimace of a Woad man in his thoughts. Áedh- that was how Isolde had called him. An angered expression on his face, the Woad had advanced, catching Tristan for the split off a second off guard. Just the split of a second, yet enough to nick Tristan's knuckles. He could have gone for his throat instead- in all likelihood Tristan would have been able to defeat him- anyway, the man could have done a lot more damage than just nicking his knuckles. So why hadn't he done so? Tristan frowned and decided that he couldn't understand the Woad's motives, nor did he want to. Nobleness had no place on a battlefield, contrary to popular belief.

He watched Arthur talk to a grizzled, older Roman on horseback who was probably the Bishop. Suspicion crossed his features as he surveyed them, yet unlike Galahad he did not bristle, when the Bishop let his gaze wander over them, referring to them as the "Sarmatian riders, we have heard so much about in Rome". It were Romans, so why be upset? He knew what to expect of Romans and that was nothing. Yet something still was not right.

The breathy murmur of the trees was becoming louder and louder, and he listened to them, temporarily stilling his movements. There was something about this so-called holy man of the Romans that reminded him of a snake he had once seen back in Sarmatia. He had been out riding with his father, and the snake had been lying right on their way. It had reared up, red eyes hard and menacing as it had glared at them threateningly. "Be careful, son," his father had warned. "There is nothing more devious than a snake."  
"Not even the nimble-footed jackal?" he had asked in surprise.

"Not even him," his father had replied seriously.

Byaczt had suddenly reared up in panic, bolting away and Tristan had had to put a lot of effort into restraining him. His father had arrived at his side and he had smiled: "And, of course, be careful with your horse, too."

Arthur's voice wrenched him out of his thoughts and he licked his knuckles again, this time to aggravate the Romans, who saw in them, even after fifteen years of blood and loss no more than barbaric savages.

"Tristan," Arthur said, "ride ahead and make sure the road is clear."

***

He nodded curtly and rode off. Secretly he was glad to get away from the snake-man, the Bishop, and the red-cloaked legionnaires, who reminded him of ducks in their immobility compared to the fast Sarmatian riders.

However, there were no perils ahead for the attacks of the Woads were rather sporadic these days. Crevan's death had been a hard blow, now the single tribes and different leaders were more occupied with killing each other rather than with killing them.

Thus he had to, much to his annoyance, return sooner to the others than he liked. His hawk was nowhere to be seen. He frowned and rode up to Bors, Gawain and Galahad, intent on passing them, when Galahad couldn't resist sniping, apparently in the middle of a conversation:

"I don't kill for pleasure. Unlike some."  
Tristan had always been good at taking a hint and so he decided to humour the pup and replied, while a tiny smirk curled the corners of his mouth: "Well, you should try it someday. You might get a taste for it."  
And an acquired taste it was, certainly. He rode past the three and ignored their half-amused, half-disturbed snorts. He didn't care. In fact, this time the pup was right- he did enjoy killing.

He did not enjoy the death around him, but he thrived in the rage that pumped through his veins and made him to a fearsome enemy. He had never expected anyone to understand; maybe there was nothing to understand. He was addicted to the fight, just like the others were, even Galahad, the young fool. They were addicted to it similar to the addiction of a moth to a flame. And they were ever drawn closer to the embers.

Finally his hawk announced herself with a sharp cry. He held out his arm to her and she landed on it, as graceful and elegant as ever. "Where you been, eh? Where you been?" She eyed him with a yellow glare and he smirked slightly. Of course. A stupid question.

After their arrival in the fort, they had some hours of freedom at their leisure. He used it to rub Byaczt down to give his valiant steed the rest he deserved.

***

Isolde had come into the stables as soon as she had heard that they had arrived, and now she was standing there, dark hair in wild disorder, slightly out of breath and her reddened cheeks matched the colour of her dress. A lovely dress it was, with a high neckline and wide yellow sleeves.

Apparently, Lancelot thought so too for he stood up a little straighter and gaped at Isolde wide-eyed. Tristan watched him in annoyance.

"My, my," Lancelot purred, "what a beauty has entered our shadow-laden realm." He gasped as if struck by an invisible light and shielded his eyes. "Ah! I am blind! She shines like a star!"

"Lancelot," Isolde chided, caught between laughter and annoyance. "You are a fool."

"Ah," Lancelot gasped, "she wounds me!"

In that moment Tristan had had enough. He came sauntering out of Byaczt's stable, nonchalantly fingering one of his throwing knifes.

"She is right," he stated casually, still fingering the glinting metal and enjoying how Lancelot's eyes widened, this time in something akin to real concern for Tristan was not one to jest.

"You are a fool, Lancelot..." Tristan ran a finger along the blade and raised it up- Lancelot gasped as the others stared- only to sink the blade into the fruity flesh of an apple, he had withdrawn quicker than they would have thought possible from one of his pockets.

And while they were still gaping, Tristan took Isolde's arm and escorted her gallantly out of the stables.

***

Once they were outside, Isolde gasped for breath and Tristan, too, had a hard time reining in his amusement.

"The look on his face," Isolde gasped out between heaves of laughter, "that indignation."

Tristan smirked briefly. "He only got what he deserved even if his flatteries were all true."  
Isolde beamed at him. "That was so unlike you back there," she then remarked.

"You," he stated wryly, "tend to bring out a side of me that I wasn't even aware of possessing before."

"A good side?" she teased.

Something dark flitted across his face as he thought of past misgivings and future challenges:

"Mostly," he answered slowly. "I have lived in the shadows for so long....and then you came and brought the sunshine back."

Instead of answering she kissed him passionately and soon nothing seemed to matter anymore; neither the discharge papers nor the strange feeling of disquiet, nor this place. Not even who they were.

But finally they had to break apart and Isolde gasped for air. They were silent for some time, content with gazing in each other's eyes. Then Tristan muttered darkly: "I don't trust that Roman."

"You don't trust any Romans," Isolde answered quietly.

"I know." Frustrated he spun around to hit the wall of a nearby building with his fist. "But there is something so wrong about him..."

Instead of replying, Isolde looked up as she heard the sound of voices and footsteps coming closer, then growing quieter as the people disappeared in the main building.

"Tristan," she said urgently, "I think you are to go to the Great Hall."

"I agree." He gave her a long, almost desperate kiss, full of an almost mad hope- if everything went well he would be a free man in less than an hour. Isolde watched him go, already yearning for the next touch, however fleeting it might be. The next touch meant freedom. Freedom and Sarmatia.

***

She stood on her tiptoes and gathered her skirts up, twirling around and around on the empty yard. Nobody was there save for her and the dust and so she continued twirling and dancing. In her imagination, she was in that faraway country- she could see those plains of gold and green- she was as free as the proud eagle and as quick as a golden cloud of dust. The playful wind was her brother, the mild rain her sister and those plains held a promise for something that she had never really had. A home.

A home, represented by Tristan's strong, loving arms. A home- a hut, a child, maybe two. Fresh laughter in the mornings, serene faces in the glow of a single candle in the evenings. A campfire outside. Dark boys on wild horses. Something to look forward to. Something that would last longer than a heartbeat. No more demanding fathers, no more dead silences.

She twirled around and stomped on the ground and twirled around faster and faster, leaving the past behind until-

"Isolde!" Vanora's voice made her stop the wild dance immediately.

"Vanora," she greeted her friend, slightly out of breath.

"Where have you been?," Vanora chided her. Isolde stared at her for a few seconds uncomprehendingly.

"Tonight is the celebration, ye remember now? Well, c'mon!"

"Aye, a celebration..." Isolde said absent-mindedly and it was to her as if the murmuring wind held voices, that sighed along with her words and mocked them- a celebration!

The two women hastened to the tavern as it began to rain outside, just the faintest drizzle and the thin grey mist gradually began to envelop the land. Outside, dawn slowly began to fall and mixed with the rain.

***

When Vanora and Isolde had finished cleaning the tables and preparing the drinks, Branwaine came in, red-cheeked, a wind-tousled Artanus on her shoulders. She greeted the others with a cheerful nod and Isolde tickled Artanus's feet.

"You're getting so big!" she laughed and the fiery-headed youngster squealed.

"He said his first word today," Branwaine announced proudly.

Vanora grinned knowingly. "So- what was it?"

"Well...," Branwaine squirmed and a man's voice added in amusement: "If you are equipped with enough imagination you might have been able to guess, that the word could have been _red_."

"Oh! You evil man!" Branwaine scolded whilst she walked over to Flavius, who was standing in the doorway.

"He said _red_, I know it for I heard it!"

"By Pollux," he grinned, "I ought to run for surely I am in trouble now."

"That you are," Branwaine opened her mouth to elaborate, but he cut her off with a fierce kiss. Artanus squealed and pulled at his father's black tufts of hair.

Vanora and Isolde watched the happy scene with a smile.

"He is good for the lass."

Isolde just nodded, her thoughts were already straying to another man and and she smiled, looking absent-minded and a little silly- as she thought of his firm touches, the warmth in his eyes and-

"Isolde!" Vanora exclaimed and shook her shoulders. "Are you even listening to what I say?"

"No, I was not," Isolde admitted sheepishly and Vanora nudged her playfully. "So, how is business going?"

"Oh quite well, I cannot complain." Isolde thought of her "business", meaning the little money she earned for caring for the sick- not much yet enough for her.

"It shan't be long until we go to Sarmatia. Ye should inform the people that ye cannot be their healer any longer."

"Aye, Sarmatia..."Isolde trailed off, a spark of insecurity still in her heart.

"So you are really going?" Branwaine asked from the doorway, where she was still standing, Flavius's arms around her waist.  
"Yes, " Isolde replied, then she asked softly: "Where will you head to, my friend?"

Branwaine tried hard to look happy- but Isolde saw right through it- and said: "We will probably go to Rome once Flavius's time of service is over."  
"And when will that be?" Vanora asked, maybe a little too harsh.

"A year, " Flavius answered and the women nodded in distraction for there was the sound of voices outside and Isolde saw the knights approaching. "Open for business!" she hollered and Vanora sprang into action, opening the grand door on the other side of the tavern for the Romans who had hung around, knowing that the tavern would be open for them soon. Now they trickled in, while candles were lit, tables were arranged and chairs were pushed back and the first mugs of ale were prepared.

***

"What has happened?" Isolde asked Gawain, who was the first one to come in, a pensive expression on his face. However, he wasn't the one to reply for Lancelot took control and snarled sarcastically:  
"Oh, the Romans had something to talk about- in private."

He huffed and took a sip of an ale mug standing next to him on a table. The mug's owner, a dour-looking Roman legionnaire glared at him but refrained from saying something for Tristan eyed him menacingly over one of his throwing knives, which he used to cut a shiny green apple.

"Whenever it is the Master's business it is not for the dog to hear," Lancelot continued, emptying the mug in a single gulp.

Its owner looked definitely disgruntled now, but Tristan brandished his knife and eyed him intently, so he remained silent.

Isolde looked sadly after Lancelot- the curly-haired knight was more hurt by what had transpired than others. Maybe because Arthur considered his knights, especially Lancelot, as equals, and to be reduced to a simple slave, so to say, brought Lancelot back to harsh reality. But that was only a guess and Isolde dared not to speak to him about it for she did not know what to say.

Tristan meanwhile, had come up behind her and she rested her head on his shoulder, looking up at him through dark lashes.

There was no need for words between them as words often destroyed the meaning of silence and its sound, that almost tangible entity hanging in the air, even here, where it was nearly drowned out by the gloom and din of the tavern.

***

Gawain and Galahad were entertaining themselves with a little dagger-throwing contest. Tristan exhaled and shook his head slightly, slipping past Isolde's slight form.

Isolde smiled as she watched him go over to the two knights. Amused, she saw that Tristan's dagger buried itself exactly in the centre of the hilt of one of the daggers already embedded deep in the wood. Galahad's mouth hung open and Gawain shook bis golden head in silent exasperation.

"Tristan-how do you do that?"

Isolde stifled another smile as Tristan answered matter-of-factly: "I aim for the middle."  
Galahad and Gawain groaned in unison as if they had been expecting that answer and Tristan walked back over to Isolde.

"They will never learn," he stated impassively.

Isolde sighed theatrically: "That's the course of nature." Tristan looked at her and smirked slightly.

But before he could reply, Vanora shouted from the other end of the tavern: "Isolde! I need your help!"

Isolde turned around and touched Tristan's face briefly. He watched her go, longing in his eyes for a second before the calm mask descended again.

However, before Isolde could reach Vanora, her friend was pushed forward.

"Sing! Sing!" several voices chanted. "Sing about home!" Isolde watched in amusement, how Vanora continued to refuse, then she leaned against a pillar and watched her red-headed friend. No matter how often Vanora denied it; Isolde knew that she liked singing. She often heard her quietly warbling a ditty when they were out washing the dirty laundry, but when asked for it, her bold friend was ever so often reluctant to do so.

***

_Land of bear and land of eagle, land that gave us birth and blessing..._

While Vanora's clear voice filled the yard, Isolde looked over to Tristan, but he had averted his eyes, mechanically cutting the apple in his hand to slices. She wondered what he was thinking about- the home he'd left behind so many years ago? A sea of shimmering grass-blades, awash in an arbitrary wind- a clear cerulean sky filled with impossibly white clouds.

Then Tristan's eyes met Isolde's and there was so much hope in them, that Isolde smiled at him with shining eyes and sunshine in her heart. Home! They would go home! Tristan's home, but who said that she couldn't make it to her home as well?

Isolde's eyes strayed to the fire that was casting shadows on people's faces and licked hungrily at the starless dark sky. When her gaze wandered back to Tristan, she found that he had averted his eyes, even stilled his mechanical motions. The amber eyes were full of shadows and Isolde would have given anything to know what he was thinking about.

A slight movement on the other side of the yard caught her eye. It was Arthur and she gazed at him in surprise while a strong feeling of anxiety rose up in her. His green gaze strayed first over the knights and finally to Isolde. She sucked in a sharp breath at the look on his face. He held her gaze for a while, then he nodded and averted his eyes. Isolde felt the hurt almost like a physical pain, a sharp blow to the stomach that made her gasp and grow light-headed and dizzy.

"No," she whimpered, holding onto a pillar with shaking knees.

Meanwhile Arthur had turned to his knights. He started to speak and Isolde forced herself to listen. Not that it was difficult, the silence that had fallen on the yard, allowed Arthur's voice to ring clearly in the evening air. The Roman legionnaires and various mercenaries at the tables kept quiet as well.

Isolde listened with trepidation, heard Arthur speak about a Roman family, located far in the North, above the Wall, heard him speak of duty, of a freedom that they would be rewarded with when they returned, yet all her thoughts revolved around one pivotal question: Why was this family's happiness so much worth that countless others had to sacrifice their freedom for it? Why were the Romans in any way better than them, the so-called "barbarians"? She remembered comparing happiness to a big pastry, so many years ago, when she had first arrived on this isle. If happiness was a pastry, why did the Romans claim to own all of it? Why...

Bors's infuriated roar wrenched her out of her thoughts: "I am a free man! I will choose my own fate!"

Then Tristan's calm, frigid reply: "Yeah, yeah, we're all going to die some day. If it's a death from a Saxon hand that frightens you, stay home."

Isolde gasped for breath, feeling how her heart thumped at a fast pace. How could he say that? How could he be so careless?

She sank against the pillar and covered her face with her hands, if only to calm down and still the desolate mantra of the inward voice, that said _Why- Why -Why -Why- Why?_

_***  
_

"Isolde?" Tristan's accented voice. Sudden helpless anger made her want to lash out, to slap him like on that fateful day in Gaul. But when she opened her eyes, her whole anger evaporated immediately. He looked as if he had aged considerably in the last ten minutes. Now that he allowed the mask to disappear, she saw incredible weariness and resigned despair. Defeated, she let her arms sink down at her sides and stared at him, feeling empty.

"I need to prepare myself for tomorrow," he stated simply. She nodded numbly and trailed after him like a lost dog, what she, in a way, was.

After arriving in his room she just stood there and gazed at him, how he arranged his collection of daggers, controlled his arrows and his bow...after a while, her gaze strayed over to the window and she walked over to it, removing the heavy animal skin and looking outside. It was a clear night, dotted with bright stars and completed by drifting mists.

Warm breath tickled her ear and she spun around, staring at him. He looked back at her impassively from his superior height. His stubbled face was grey and suddenly he deflated, allowing the weary slump in his shoulders to become more apparent.

"Why did you say it?" Isolde demanded, clinging to the rage even in face of his exhaustion.

"Because it is the truth."

Resigned, she nodded. There was no way to convince him otherwise, for Tristan's opinions were steadfast and she knew him too well to even attempt changing his ways. He evaded such attempts, no matter who made them, with the grace of a hawk, or, when cornered, he even lashed out in one of his irate rages that made him snarl and scowl at anyone who dared to attack him, be it verbally or physically.

***

"You have to rest," she said stiffly, feeling how the distance between them grew. "I will go now."

"Stay." He caught her hand. "Don't go. Not tonight."

She found that she could not refuse him, found even that she had waited for him to ask.

"It's good," she stayed softly and looked at him, how he stood there, his stubbled face grey from exhaustion, sweaty, dusty and exhausted. Flecks of blood were still scattered over his breeches.

"We have ever been like birds of passage, haven't we? Always apart and you are ever flying ahead."

Tristan understood immediately. Roughly, he said: "I'd wait for you after the bend in the road. I would wait no matter what."

She looked at him and smiled genuinely even though she felt like crying. "I know you would."

And it hit her, just how much she loved this man: his deep voice, which was hoarse when he got up in the mornings, his stubbled cheeks, the brown tangled hair that loved to fall in his eyes, his silent ways that scared others, his stubborn pride and his intelligent all-awareness. She could never exist in a world in which he wasn't alive. If he were to fall, she would only tumble after him. And with that realisation she stood on her tip-toes and kissed him with the courage that only despair can bestow upon a human being.

Tristan must have seen something in her eyes for he stepped back and held her shoulders in a firm grip. "No, Isolde," he said intently and she thought that she had never seen him sound so fierce and forceful before.

"Yes," she answered calmly and he stared at her with a pained look. She smiled sadly and wondered dimly, why she was shaking so badly and why his hands were trembling so much.

"I cannot live without you," she mumbled softly.

"Then I will just have to make sure that I return, won't I?" He smirked, but it was fleeting and full of emptiness, which was a contradiction in itself.

"You have to rest," Isolde repeated her earlier words and the unspoken something still continued to hover between them.

***

She sat down on the bed and after some time in which he simply looked at her, he sank down beside her. Slowly, ever so slowly, he put his head into her lap and she massaged his scalp, ran her fingers through his tangled hair and finally started to open some of his warrior braids, save for the long one, the one he never opened- "only when I return to Sarmatia," he had told her once- and ran her fingers through the brown mass.

He relaxed under her touch and she kept on running her fingers through his hair, until his breaths calmed and their regularity told her, that he had fallen asleep.

The sound of his calm breaths filled the silence and she clung to that sound, so the darkness wouldn't get to her and swallow her up. He was her life raft whilst she was being tossed about by a black, merciless sea.

And while the father of her unborn child slept in her lap, her thoughts wandered to that very child as did her hands, and she absent-mindedly stroked her still rather flat belly. "Momma loves you," she whispered, but it seemed insufficient in the overwhelming blackness and she shuddered as her words faded away in the hostile silence.

* * *

When the next morrow rose and the knights rode away, Isolde was standing on the wall: a petite figure clothed in a red dress with a grey shawl slung around her slim shoulders that watched in silence, how they departed, how _he _rode away.

When the dust of the horses' hooves had long since settled in the distance, Isolde was still standing there.

Then, finally, she turned around and walked towards the buildings, her head lowered.

A slight wind came up and pushed her hair in her face and made dead brown leaves perform their sinister dance in the crisp cool autumn air, so she wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

But somehow, the cold still penetrated her bones.

* * *

_tbc_


	40. Glimpses

_Hello! A new update for you! First of all, thank you for your wonderful reviews, **gymgurl, Lairiel **(wow, thank you for such a long review! :D) and of course **CarolinaJuliette! **You are marvellous reviewers!  
_

_I hope you like this one too, even though it might look like a jigsaw puzzle at first sight. It's just that I thought we probably all know the movie and it would be senseless to attempt to rewroite it (I would never manage to make it as good as the real thing anyway^^), so I decided to write about the moments we don't see on the screen and of course about Isolde. The title is pretty self-explanatory anyway...I hope the different POVs in so short periods are not too confusing :S....please tell me what you think about it._

_I hope you like it! The next chapter should be up soon, sometime next week._

_Sachita (-;  
_

* * *

**40. Glimpses**

*****  
**

Foam flocks gathered around Byaczt's snout and he snorted softly, tossing his proud head.

His rider was as exhausted as his steed was, but he just bent down and patted his horse's neck.

Byaczt snorted again, but this time it was more of a resigned snort, as if he was already preparing himself for another violent ride through ice storms and blizzards.

They had already ridden through storms where the rain had come down in sheets, had crossed the icy currents of a mountain river and had struggled through snow drifts.

But he still had to ask more of his loyal horse, much more.

Tristan allowed himself and Byaczt a short rest as he let his hand linger a little longer on the smooth white fur.

But the quick sound of a snapping twig alerted him and the scout's head snapped up immediately as he surveyed his surroundings with sharp cold eyes.

Several heartbeats later the dead body of a Saxon scout was lying in front of him.

He mounted Byaczt again and willed his tired body and his weary horse to cooperate- he had to report to Arthur what he had seen earlier- the Saxons had covered their retreat route in the South and were also advancing from the East. But he had to tell Arthur that there was another route- the one across the mountains. Flashes of snow, ice and cold assaulted him as he thought about it, but he knew that there was no other way. And he had always been one to present the stark truth as it was and not to veil it with pretty words.

It was the relentless determination to get to Arthur that made him struggle on and drove him right into the clutches of another ice storm.

* * *

The light of a candle illuminated the soft features of the woman's face in a golden light.

Pensively Isolde warmed her stiff fingers at the meagre flame. Tristan had no such comforts, yet she couldn't do anything for him. She could just sit here and wait for him.

Her thoughts strayed to the old woman that she had seen to before because of a persistent cough.

She had escorted her back to her hut and before the woman entered, she had turned back to Isolde with a knowing smile.

"Your loved one is amongst those who have ridden out, aye?"

Isolde had been surprised. "How do you know?"

"It's in your face, child." The old woman had given a hacking cough. "Now get me into my hut."

Isolde had caught her arm.

"Wait, Mother, they say the Saxons are coming. Where will you go?"

The old woman had smiled a gentle if toothless grin and it had pulled her wrinkled face apart like a canyon that appears suddenly in between high mountain ranges. "I will stay here, of course, child."

Isolde had stared at her. "But Mother- the Saxons- I don't understand!"

The old woman's eyes had been sad. "And I don't expect you to, lass."

* * *

Tristan stopped on a small hill and surveyed the long caravan of haggard faces that struggled along the path under him. He snarled slightly.

They would never make it. It was foolhardy to take all those people with them, yet Arthur had insisted. Of course, seeing it with Arthur's God's morale it was probably the right thing to do, but still, what had the Romans' God ever done for them? Had he protected the Sarmatian people from being slaughtered? Tristan snarled again. The Saxons would catch up with them and he would be prepared to fight, yet it was a fight that they couldn't win. Tristan had seen the gigantic army of the Saxons advancing, had heard their eager battle cries. They were going to die and those people were going to die with them.

Isolde's face swam by in front of his inner eye. He knew that she would undoubtedly support Arthur and help those people. And, with his Lady's reproachful face in his mind, he lowered his head and gave in. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered under his breath. "Alright."

With a single firm nod, he whirled Byaczt around and galloped to the end of the caravan to get the people to hurry up. Snow whirled up after him in an angry cascade.

* * *

Isolde took the piece of linen that Branwaine offered her with a grateful nod.

"It'll get better," her friend sympathetically said in their native tongue. Isolde sat up and felt queasy, hoping fervently that no further violent wave of losing her meals would come.

"You are sure?" she mumbled weakly.

"I am sure," Branwaine said and helped her up from where she had been huddling on the cold stone floor. "It was bad for me, but now I have Artanus," she smiled fondly, "and he is completely worth all my troubles."

Isolde smiled weakly. "Let us walk a bit, Brana," she requested softly. Branwaine nodded and they walked out of the buildings, past the grey and brown huts of the people and finally out into a green meadow. Hadrian's Wall's dark shape loomed up behind them in a threatening manner. Isolde sighed and sank down in the green grass. Branwaine sat down next to her and straightened her long skirts as she did so.

Silence reigned for a while, while Isolde struggled to put her thoughts in words. She sighed and finally asked hesitantly: "Tell me, Brana, are you happy about going to Rome with Flavius?"

Her friend was silent for a long while and started to pluck the grass-blades to pieces. With a frustrated motion, she tossed the green bits away and blew a strand of blond hair out of her face. Isolde shaded her eyes against the pale waxy light of the winter sun and looked over to Branwaine, who finally started to speak.

"I don't know," she muttered, "I just don't know!"

"But how can you not know?" Isolde demanded forcefully, surprising herself with her anger. Branwaine spun around to her in a rare show of temper, but then shook her head and turned away, hunched in on herself as if in pain.

Isolde winced and felt immediately ashamed. "I am sorry," she said softly and put a cool hand on Branwaine's back, rubbing it over the rough fabric of her dress. "That was uncalled for."

Branwaine sighed, a weak plaintive sigh. "No, you are right. I should make up my mind. Yet when I think of Rome…I think of scornful society Ladies, pugnacious neighbours and generally a blatant dismissal of me- a Gaul, who is a Roman officer's wife! Just imagine…"

Isolde was silent for a second, and then she said: "Well, then stay here." A sudden idea gripped her and she cried impulsively: "No, wait. Convince Flavius that you two can come with us, with Tristan and me- to Sarmatia!"

Branwaine shook her head ruefully and a sad smile appeared on her face. "You know that is impossible. Even if the Sarmatians would gradually accept him. You just know that there is no way. But you," she continued, obviously as taken with an idea as Isolde had been before, "you could come with us. To Rome."  
Isolde thought of Tristan's hate and animosity whenever he spoke of Rome and she shook her head, compressing her lips. "I cannot and you know it."

Branwaine smiled at her tearfully, her heart in her eyes. "Come," she whispered.

Isolde felt the pain just as strongly, it made her gulp and left a fierce ache in her chest.

"Come," she said quietly herself.

Her friend shook her head with shining eyes, a silent no, and now it was Isolde's turn to smile, albeit with difficulty.

Branwaine drew her into an impulsive hug and Isolde held onto her dearest, her oldest friend as if there was no tomorrow.

Branwaine released her after a while and wiped her eyes, sniffing tearfully. "Don't worry about the sudden anger attacks," she jested weakly. "When I was pregnant, I threw a pot at Flavius once."

Isolde eyed her, aghast, but when she realized Branwaine was serious, she broke in a fit of giggles and Branwaine joined in. Their amused, if slightly hysterical laughter filled the cold winter air.

* * *

Tristan's curved blade collided harshly with that of a Saxon warrior, sending sparks flying in the white winter silence. The Saxon had recklessly assaulted him which proved to be a blunder for Tristan's parries were far more powerful and the Saxon had grave difficulty in keeping up with them. He was already panting harshly.

"You," Tristan growled, suddenly recognising the man now that he had time to scrutinize him more closely. It was the Saxon called Warner who had captured him, years ago.

The Saxon grinned despite his dire situation; apparently he had recognised Tristan as well. "The Sarmatian dog," he mocked and attacked Tristan with new fervour. Tristan, however, defended himself with quiet stealth opposed to the passionate if reckless advances of the Saxon. In the end his cool disposition worked to his favour, hence his old nemesis was soon lying in front of him, dead. It was an old debt that had been settled, an old promise that had been made good, yet Tristan felt no triumph, only increasing weariness, both in body and in spirit. Sluggishly he cleaned his sword and put it back in the scabbard.

A tired scout was a bad scout, but he had to keep looking. He couldn't afford to miss anything. He had to make sure that there were no perils ahead, he had to look, maybe there was another way, one that wouldn't lead them over the frozen lake, he had to- he had to- What did he have to? Confused he shook his head. He was sure that the thought was not far out of reach yet, but it was nearly impossible to arrange his scattered thoughts in a sensible pattern.

He shook his head again, trying to clear the fuzzy grey edges from his vision and that was what he was doing on the whole ride back. He had to- had to... His thoughts strayed abruptly to Isolde and the warm comfort of her arms, which had offered him a place to rest more times than he could count. However he knew that it was dangerous to let his thoughts stray like that, he had to stay focussed he had to, he had to...

***

He was so occupied with organising his weary mind that he even failed to report to Arthur as soon as he arrived. Instead Gawain found him kneeling in the snow next to Byaczt, trying to solve the problems that his weary mind faced by rubbing a handful of snow across his face.

The golden-haired knight eyed him incredulously. "What do you think you are doing, Tristan?" Tristan looked up at him and shook his head again, trying to regain control over his fuzzy vision. Gawain was blurring in front of his eyes and he frowned, scooping another handful of snow up. It helped; at least insofar that he got a hold of that fleeting thought: He was going to report to Arthur and then he was going to ride out again. Yes.

In his weary confusion he had failed to answer to Gawain's question and the other knight stared at him in increasing disbelief. Finally the golden-haired knight started to shake Tristan's shoulder firmly, until the scout looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, blinking in obvious bewilderment. Gawain was anxious, he knew that Tristan wore himself out, always wore himself out when he was out on his scouting missions, but rarely he reduced himself to such a state, if only to be able to ride out on the following morning again.

"Tristan," he tried.

"I am going to report to Arthur and then I am going to ride out again."

The raspy reply made Gawain gape and stare at the persistent scout. Damn that man!

"Oh no, you aren't," he told him sternly, taking Tristan's arm- the scout offered little resistance- and bringing him to Arthur. Their commander was standing atop a little hill, green eyes pensive as he gazed out in the hostile darkness of the forest.

"Arthur," Gawain said tersely. Arthur turned around at the sound of his voice, his eyes questioning as he looked them over. "Tristan here wants to ride out again. He is mad," Gawain informed their Commander in a very resigned voice. Tristan stared at him in silent indignation, but his glare didn't seem to work the way it usually did for Gawain stared back at him coolly and even shook his head.

Thus, Tristan only growled a low "He can hear you", but the exhaustion tinged his words and took their sharpness away. Annoyed, he addressed Arthur and told him in short words about the Saxon he had killed, their army's advance and their approximate number. When he was finished and Arthur was still mulling over the new information, Tristan turned to Gawain and said tersely: "I am fine. Let go off me."

With an irritated glint in his eyes, which gleamed like blue icicles in the dim light of the night, Gawain released Tristan's arm abruptly. Tristan, badly startled and thrown off balance would have fallen if not for Arthur's quick reaction and his steadying grip.

Arthur shook his head at him while he tried to regain his balance- and his dignity.  
"Tristan." He could detect weary concern and resignation in his Commander's voice. "Get some rest. It is an order."

Tristan stared at him in silent defiance, but it was Arthur and so he dipped his head as he always did, a short acknowledgment of the man's orders. He turned around and found a place under a nearby tree. It was freezing; hence he took his cape off and wrapped it around himself. As his eyes slowly closed, they found the Woad woman who stood under some solemn oak trees, looking over to him. He allowed his eyes to drift open again and glared at her coldly. His hand found a dagger and he let it rest on his knees. She stared at him, then at the dagger and disappeared in the quiet night. Tristan shook his head. He didn't trust her...He slept with his hand tightly curled around his dagger that night and dreamed of green eyes, dark hair and pale, creamy hands.

* * *

As the days dragged on, Isolde's patience was waning. She was highly-strung these days, even the slightest sound made her jump. There was no sign of the knights, no way to know if they were safe, or even alive and no way to find out. The Bishop's presence in the fort unnerved her. "I don't trust that Roman," Tristan had said. Would he grant freedom to the knights once they came back- not if they came back? No, not if, never if.

She wouldn't be able to cope if he didn't come back. Her footsteps were light as she ran up to the Wall, taking the stairs in quick strides and finally reaching the top.

The guards looked at the wind-blown woman in surprise, but she was already propping herself up on the cool stone with shaky hands, eyes keen as she surveyed the land. Thick mists had descended in the distance so it was impossible for her to tell whether there were riders coming or not. Still, she kept on looking, so long until she felt the sudden stab of disappointment, but it was a familiar stab and inwardly she had almost waited for it. It was like a physical blow to the stomach and she doubled over, a sob rising in her throat.

Slowly, she slid down to sit on the ground. Helpless sobs made her tremble and there was no one who could have broken her fall, save for one, and he was not there.

* * *

Four more Saxons fell from Tristan's blade and he stepped silently back, surveying them stoically. They were poorly equipped- none of them had real armour and their swords looked not much better than random chunks of metal. However, something caught his eye and he leaned down with a frown, pulling the item out from underneath a Saxon's body. A crossbow and he stared at it in frozen alarm for a few seconds, remembering the missile protruding from his cousin's chest...the frozen look in the brown eyes...

"Dinadan..." he whispered in quiet, melancholic remembrance and his hand closed around the weapon. Dinadan had worn armour that day, but he had still been killed. Crossbows pierced armours. He had to hurry.

He whistled for his horse and swung in the saddle, urging Byaczt into gallop even before he had caught the stirrups.

* * *

The velvet night surrounded Isolde and she inhaled the clear air that filled her lungs, while turning away from the few flickering lights of the fort. She gathered her skirts up and slipped out of her worn shoes. Her feet encountered wet grass-blades and she smiled even as a slight shudder ran down her back. The nights had always been her favourites, cool, serene and peaceful as they were.

So unlike the harsh glare of the days which plunged everything in so unforgiving a light and illuminated every ugliness and each shabby corner. But the nights meant freedom and it were not the humans but rather the animals who ruled the land. Isolde liked them better for they had never felt the desire to fight wars. So why couldn't the humans do so as well? A world of peace was what she wished for, yet she was convinced that there was no way to achieve it.

Tristan had only smiled mildly and somewhat sadly, when she had told him about it. "This world will never see peace," he had said lowly. "Not as long as there are humans able to wield a weapon."

"But why?" She had taken his large hand in her smaller one and had traced his calloused fingers. "Imagine," she had said softly, "you would only use this hand to wield a plough instead of wielding a sword." Tristan had shook his head: "No, Isolde, even if I were as peaceful a man as Arthur," –"which you are not," – "No," he had replied grimly, "I am not. But even if I were I would rather wield a weapon for it is no use to be a sheep in a pack of wolves. And I could never let harm befall you because of my inability to protect you." He had held her in his arms and he had kissed her, as if she could break in the next moment. She had felt so safe, so protected...A slight ripple on the water startled her and she stepped away from the river where her feet had carried her to.

Sighing, she sank down in the long grass-blades, staring up at the stars. She lifted her hands as if to reach them and wondered idly whether the stars would glow as brightly if she were able to take them down to earth? Or would their light vanish?

A taste of salt assaulted her tongue and she reached up absentmindedly, realising that her cheeks were wet. "Tristan;" she whispered to a passing shooting star, "Please, come back to me."

* * *

Tristan looked at Dagonet's still face. The bitter taste in his mouth made him exhale sharply, yet the acid flavour of burnt bread stayed on his tongue. Dagonet. Why Dagonet?

Why Dagonet, whose gentle ways had always been vastly different from the other Sarmatians' hot-headed dispositions? Guilt assaulted him as he thought about the icy lake, where Dagonet had found his death. He should have found another way. There must have been another way, but where- he had looked for so long, searched for so long...

He looked over to his fellow knights. Bors's eyes hadn't stopped being moist since Dagonet's death and from time to time a harsh sob escaped his lips, making Tristan feel even more guilty. The others were pale and coped as they always coped, yet this time they had no ale to chase the memories away. Tristan averted his eyes and thought of Isolde, his sweet, gentle Lady with her wishful thinking and her calm touch, which was as much a balm for the jagged tears in his ravaged soul as her thoughtful words were. She had soothed him countless times, had kept him from falling over the edge when he was lost in his own tormented rages.

He looked once again over to Dagonet. No. This time not even Isolde was able to mend their broken souls.

* * *

"They are coming! They are coming!" Three's excited high voice rang over the courtyard and the reaction was instantaneous: Everyone, be it children, women or soldiers ran to the gate to welcome the weary knights.

Isolde's heart jumped in her throat as she peered over the scruffy heads of some merchants and recognised Tristan's shaggy head. He was alive! She could have embraced the whole world or at least the people standing on the Wall, yet she restrained herself and kept watching him.

"A success! A success!" The Bishop, who had appeared on the Wall as well, yelled in exuberance. Isolde couldn't help herself and her temper that didn't emerge very often flared up. She said loudly: "These are the words of a man, who has sent others to their certain death whereas he himself stands here, safe and sound!"

The Bishop eyed her coldly. His whole demeanour reminded Isolde so much of a snake that she secretly had to admit that Tristan had been right when he had compared the man to such a devious, insidious animal.

"And who might you be?" he asked her snidely.

" I am Isolde," she said firmly. "And you do not deserve to greet those fine knights."

The legionnaires on the left and the right of the bishop brandished their weapons. However, the people around Isolde loudly voiced their approval of her actions and advanced in a threatening manner.

The Bishop obviously realised that he was outnumbered and was probably also unwilling to face the wrath of an irate mob, so he turned around, not without grazing Isolde with a threatening glare, before departing to the courtyard, no doubt awaiting the arrival of the knights there.

Isolde and Vanora gathered their skirts up and ran to the gate.

And finally, finally, there they were.

Isolde had to stifle a sob when she saw him coming in and the look that he gave her spoke volumes. But then her eyes found something that let her hands tremble and her heart miss a beat. Dagonet's limp hand was dangling uselessly out of a dark blanket that had been used to cover his still form.

The people lining the street were very quiet- a deathly hush seemed to have fallen over them. The return of the knights, a success in the Bishop's eyes, looked more and more like a cortege. Isolde walked past the knights and Tristan let his horse fall back a few steps.

Mutely the gazed at each other for a few long seconds and the silence between them was not pretty, it was gloomy and dark. Finally Tristan spoke and his voice was an exhausted, hoarse whisper: "It is truly good to see you."

"It is good to see you," she replied softly and had to stifle another sob, this time at everything that had transpired. She looked over to where Dagonet's still form was passing a row of Roman legionnaires. In dignified silence, they saluted under the grim silent looks of the Sarmatians. It was a thoughtful gesture, yet it meant little to the knights- these Romans belonged to the same Nation whose "one-of-the-holiest-men"- the Bishop- was responsible for the death of their friend.

With all these thoughts swirling in a desolate pattern through her head, Isolde looked up to Tristan who responded to her look with an indecipherable of his own. The walls were firmly up and Isolde sighed. Despair started to overwhelm her like a tidal wave.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder and when she looked up, that Tristan had leaned down from his horse. "We will talk, Isolde," he said quietly. "Later." She gazed at him in sudden exhaustion and saw that he also had to be exhausted for his face appeared to be grey and his eyes were blood-shot. "Later," she repeated softly.

***

He nodded at her again and hurried Byaczt up to catch up with the others. She looked after him and felt hollow out of the sudden.

For a while she stood there, gazing vacantly after the mass of people who followed the knights, and then she leaned against a nearby house wall, steadying herself with a gasp.

Everything turned in front of her weary eyes. Dagonet was dead, the Romans were leaving, the Saxons were approaching, this island would soon be under their control, her friend was going to Rome while she was leaving for Sarmatia, she was expecting a child and Tristan looked as if he could do with a lot of rest, Arthur was undoubtedly torn between Rome and Britain, the knights were torn between their loyalty to him, their reluctance to say good-bye to him and their desire to return home...Isolde's vision blurred and she staggered back, heavily leaning against the wall behind her to stay standing.

Where would all this end? She felt as if she was standing at the side of a river with dark storm clouds gathering over her head and could only watch as its icy currents tore everything apart that had been good and true before.

Now she could not do anything but wait for the tidal wave that was already on its way. A tidal wave that she was nearly looking forward to, for those waves brought clarification.

Maybe this wave would just bring clear skies, or maybe it would drown them- there was nothing more arbitrary than the Deities of the Water.

* * *

_tbc_


	41. The Curse of Knowledge

_Hi! Thank you so much for your reviews**, Rhysel, gymgurl **and **CarolinaJuliette!**I am sorry for the long wait, but unfortunately Real Life kept me busy and is still doing so- that's why this chapter is shorter than usual. For that I apologise, but I am working on the next chapter already and I won't keep you waiting for so long for it, I promise! I hope you like this one as well (=_

_-Sachita^^  
_

* * *

**41. The Curse of Knowledge  
**

*****  
**

Isolde regained her wits slowly and pushed herself away from the wall she had been leaning on, as if in a daze. A scruffy-looking drunkard with a dirty face and bad teeth approached her, yet she did not even notice him. She moved past him as if caught up in a dream. Her skirts trailed through the mud, but again she failed to notice.

Her steps faltered when she found herself in the courtyard. It was abandoned and she presumed distractedly that the knights had gone inside already.

A dark-haired woman in a blue dress was sitting on the steps that led to the Great Hall. She was rubbing comforting circles on the back of a little blond-haired boy, who was crying quietly in his hands. Despite the woman's gentle motions, however, they seemed frozen, as if stuck in a painting.

Isolde approached carefully, not knowing why she chose to do that, yet something about the woman struck her as familiar. The woman looked up as she came closer and gave her a polite half-smile.

"I am Guinevere," she said, not waiting for Isolde to speak. "He is Lucan." She had said it in an almost defensive manner, as if she had to explain her being here to Isolde somehow.

"Peace, Guinevere," Isolde replied quietly. "My name is Isolde."

"Isolde…" Guinevere lowered her head as if in deep thought and then her sharp brown eyes found Isolde's eyes again. "You are the grand-daughter of a relative of my father."

"Of course," Isolde breathed in recognition. "You are Merlin's daughter. I saw you at the Spring Celebrations once in passing."

Guinevere smiled up at her through some strands of her brown hair. "So that makes you, Isolde, practically to my sister."

"Rather to a distant relative," Isolde answered stiffly, unsure where her sudden reluctance was coming from. Merlin had always been good to her, but he had still kept her in a cage of some sort. But she could not blame this on his daughter, could she? She gave herself a mental shove and in an attempt at careful kindliness she asked:

"What happened to you and the boy?"

Guinevere's look of amicability had vanished to make room for conflicting emotion chasing across her pretty face. At Isolde's question her expression became overcast and she pulled the boy close.

"I am sorry," Isolde stated in genuine regret. "It is not my place to ask."

Guinevere shook her head. "Please, Isolde, sit down."

Isolde took a seat next to the other woman and, staring in the dirt and dust of the courtyard, Guinevere told her everything that had transpired. Isolde shuddered, for she knew what it was like to be surrounded by darkness with no way out. When the other woman had finished she put a wary hand on her shoulder in a show of silent sympathy.

Guinevere accepted the small gesture with a wan smile.

"Where will you go, sister?" she asked abruptly.

Isolde was slightly thrown off by the sudden changing of the topic, but she replied quietly:

"I will follow the knights to their home country."

Guinevere raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "To Sarmatia?"

"Yes," Isolde replied, quickly reverting back to stiffness.

"You love a knight," Guinevere stated blandly and played with some strands of Lucan's hair.

"Aye, I do." Isolde realised that Guinevere was a woman, who stood true to her principles and would defend them no matter what. A headstrong person, a forward person, certainly someone who knew what she wanted and Isolde was not sure if she was able to relate to Guinevere's persona.

"I hope Arthur will stay," Guinevere mumbled finally, showing weakness for the first time. Isolde could have used that tidbit provided by the other woman to further evaluate her personality, but once she thought longer on Guinevere's words, she started harshly.

"You mean to make him stay here? Here, in Brittany?"

Guinevere lowered her head as if in shame, but then she raised it again with a defiant glimmer in the brown depths.

"That is his choice to make."

Isolde ignored her reply. "You mean to tell me," she asked incredulously, "that you are trying to convince Arthur to accompany you on so selfish a quest?"

Guinevere bristled. "'Tis not so selfish a quest for we fight for our freedom. Isn't it right to fight for our land?"

Isolde regarded her coolly. "You may do that, Guinevere. But you should not force others to aid you in so desperate a fight. " She got up and wanted to go away, but Guinevere caught her sleeve, a remorseful expression on her face.

"No. Wait, sister. We should not part on such bad terms. We may have had a disagreement, but that does not mean that I am not happy to make your acquaintance."

"As am I," Isolde replied honestly, for she held no grudge against Merlin's daughter. She seemed kind despite of all her firm beliefs. Firm beliefs insofar as that Guinevere still seemed to believe, that the good would win no matter what the odds were. And she believed that whole-heartedly, despite all that had been done to her. Isolde was not sure whether to be envious of her or pity her.

"I wish you all the best, Isolde," Guinevere told her with a genuine smile. "I am not sure if we are to meet again."

"Farewell, Guinevere," Isolde replied, too weary and exhausted to even attempt forming a longer, more stilted sentence.

***

Sometime later, in the early hours of afternoon, Isolde made her way across the empty courtyard, intent on waiting until the knights' debriefing was finished.

A shadow grabbed her suddenly and lifted her in a dark corner. She screamed, but her scream abruptly stopped, when she recognised the strong grip of the calloused hands.

"Tristan?"

Instead of replying he kissed her roughly, and it was indeed a rough kiss that lacked all of his usual grace and gentleness.

Isolde gasped for air. "Tristan?" she tried again, but before she could even make a sound, her lips were yet again captured in a fierce kiss.

His grip on her forearms was hard, almost rough. Isolde started to struggle, which made him only hold her tighter.  
"Tristan," she cried yet again, "let me go!"

Again he didn't heed her calls. Isolde applied more force to her words. "Tristan, let go of me! You're hurting me!"

At this last sentence he stepped back immediately, a look of horror on his normally so expressionless features. He seemed shocked at what he had done. Isolde rubbed her wrists and looked at him. Tristan stared at her, and ran his tongue over his lower lip, a sure sign of his insecurity.

"Tristan-" Isolde started, but before she could form a coherent sentence, he had turned around and had disappeared in the stables. She knew better than to follow him, and with a feeling of dread she turned around only to find Lancelot watching her with an indecipherable look.

"Lancelot," she said softly.

***

"Isolde," he greeted her almost absent-mindedly. He looked bad, Isolde reflected. Dark smudges under his eyes spoke of exhaustion and a deep weariness that reminded her of that bottomless exhaustion she had seen on Tristan's face before.

"He is not in his right mind, Isolde," Lancelot told her suddenly, nodding where Tristan had disappeared to. "None of us are."

Isolde searched his face. "And you know that because-" she prompted.  
"I know Tristan," Lancelot answered, a sad half-smile playing on his lips. "He is not the phantom he would like to be." In an attempt at feeble humour, he joked: "Even though he is quite apt at disappearing suddenly."

Isolde smiled fleetingly, but a sudden pain in her stomach made her gasp. She nearly doubled over.

"Isolde?" Lancelot sounded worried. His dark eyes swam by in front of her vision like dark lakes as seen from the fathomless heights of a mountain, deep brown spots in a white patch. Slowly his face arranged itself and she realised that the white patch was his face, distorted in anxiety and worry.

"Isolde?" he asked again.

"I am fine," she gasped. "Just a little-"

And she couldn't have said what she was feeling, only what she was not feeling, for her emotions were a jumbled mix of everything and thus she tried to suppress the unsettling feeling of dizziness and smiled at Lancelot weakly.  
"I could do with a little walk."

Lancelot understood immediately and offered her his arm with a pale, concerned imitation of his roguish grin. "My Lady."

"My Lord," Isolde answered in mock seriousness, even though jesting made her throat constrict out of reasons that she couldn't have explained.  
"To the Wall?" Lancelot asked.

"Aye," Isolde agreed and thought of all the hours she had spent on that very Wall, worrying, loving, contemplating…It had become something of a sanctuary for her, a refuge from the harsh reality of their world, and now she needed this refuge more than ever.

They made their way to the Wall in silence.  
The sun was just beginning to set on the horizon in a pale halo. The landscape seemed like a frozen painting and would have been beautiful if not for the constant sound of drums in the distance.

Flocks of birds plummeted into the pale line that divided the horizon from the land, and disappeared. A strong wind had arisen and the leaves of strong oaks trembled in the winds of a dark precognition.

"The Saxons are coming," Lancelot stated in a bland voice.  
"Yes," Isolde agreed simply.  
"This land will be conquered."

"Most likely," she said matter-of-factly, wishing to get him out of his defence.

It didn't take long. Lancelot's nature was volatile and he was not one to keep secrets simply due to the fact that secrecy was opposed to his character.

"It does seem wrong, you know," he burst out suddenly and exhaled. Isolde watched the white clouds his breaths left in the air. They jettisoned over the edge of the Wall, white cloud ships that sailed out into dark oblivion. Isolde felt nearly envious of them, but Lancelot started to speak again.

"The Romans are giving this land up. Galahad was right. We have risked our lives for nothing at all."

These words rekindled an old flame in Isolde's chest and she retorted: "Have you not risked your lives for each other?"

Lancelot looked at her in weary confusion and Isolde elaborated.

"Such a lot of your brothers have died over those long years of servitude. Did they die in vain? Did they not sacrifice themselves for you?"

Lancelot pondered that for a moment. His dark curls were ruffled in a sudden breeze and he exhaled noisily, a harsh sound in the quiet of the night.  
"I suppose you are right," he said finally, but then he added bitterly: "That does not make it right, though."

"No," Isolde concurred quietly, "it does not make it right. But that is life." She looked away from Lancelot and turned half around to the mass of the people gathered in the comparatively small space of the fort. It seemed as if the cold of the winter had crept in their faces, for Isolde could see no smile, could hear no laughter. All that she could see was despair and anxiety in deeply-lined faces, women who had aged prematurely and old children. The only sound of human sentiments was the occasional quiet sound of weeping.

"So cynical?" Lancelot seemed surprised. "You have matured," he observed forwardly. "I am not sure whether it would be fit to congratulate you."

An edge to her voice, for they were both hurting, and he rubbed salt into her wounds, Isolde said:  
"You, Lancelot, know everything about the topic of masks, I presume."

He looked away and Isolde winced inwardly. It had been a low blow and she knew it, yet she simply could not find the energy to care. They were all hurt by the recent developments- what did a single hurt more matter? Did it matter to a wounded man if someone nicked his knuckles with a dagger?

"You are right," he stated in sudden calm, surprising her. "I know all about wearing masks. And my name shall be Lancelot, king of deception."

A cold feeling that she recognised as guilt washed over Isolde. "I am sorry," she cried, "I did not mean to make it sound like that." She turned around, unable to bear watching the thick green silence of the misty forest any longer and instead busied herself with watching the people again, even though it just served to worsen her depressed mood. Lancelot followed her example and he sounded weary as he replied: "I know you didn't, Isolde".

***

His hands were shaking and absent-mindedly Isolde noted that he gripped the stone with white knuckles. She followed his gaze and saw that he was staring at Guinevere, the Woad woman. She was sitting on the edge of the cistern, occasionally smiling in a coy manner at Arthur, who was busying himself with his horse.

"You like her," Isolde stated in surprise.

Lancelot turned to her with that famous half-smirk on his face, the one, Isolde had learned, was his insincere smile, but apparently he thought better of it and she watched as the smile slowly slid off his face like raindrops on a recalcitrant leaf.

"I do admit to having taken a certain liking to her," Lancelot admitted softly.

"And Arthur likes her as well." Isolde was normally not renowned for stating things in such a bland manner, but she was exhausted, not only in the physical sense.

"I am sorry," she said quickly, yet again, and touched Lancelot's arm hesitatingly.

He gave her a real smile this time and she already wanted to smile back, but suddenly a sharp pain blossomed up in her chest- much like she imagined a sword stroke would feel- everything swirled around her and Lancelot, too, got mixed in that surprisingly vivid blend- an assortment of colours that slowly faded to grey, a wide range of scents that faded into nothingness and a multitude of voices that melted to one concerned word: "Isolde? Isolde!"

Then: nothingness.

* * *

Light noises: the jingling of children's playthings in a light breeze, the rustle of birches in the wind. Noises forming coherent words: smatterings of her native language thrown in. Words formed sentences, concerned-sounding people. Without thinking she let words flow over her lips, a drop transformed into a stream, a stream transformed into a river and formed the words to logical sentences.

"Where am I?"

The reaction was immediate: loud, many voices hurt her ears and sudden brightness startled her eyes that she had tried to open, but somehow they would not comply as her lids were sticky.

"Isolde…" A voice she had come to love and she picked it out from the others' hectic murmuring immediately: a deep voice, roughened by lack of use and the elements, yet a beautiful voice and she wouldn't have wanted to hear another.

"Isolde…you fell."

"I fell?" she asked, her voice as trusting as that of a child. "Why?"  
Then realization sank in and she gasped, sitting up in bed with a start. Her eyes flew open to stare at all the assembled people around her bed. Arthur, Lancelot, Vanora and Tristan. Tristan. She found his eyes and gave him a wan smile. He did not smile back, which made her fears only grow stronger.

"My child?" she gasped breathlessly.

Tristan's face morphed into an expressive grimace, a rare thing to be observed on a man with such a stony countenance.

"Dear…" Vanora came forward and sat down at her side. "Your child is well. But we believe, that your fall shows…" She trailed off and searched for words. Intently, she leaned in and Isolde stared up to her uncomprehendingly. "We fear that complications may arise at the time of the birth. You are still weakened from the time in that dungeon of the Roman bastard."

She looked away, anguish tinting her expression. Isolde caught her hands:

"Please, Vanora, tell me. I need to know."  
Vanora gazed at her. "My dear," she said slowly, enunciating every word carefully, "you might die."

* * *

_tbc_


	42. At Sundown

_Please, if you read this story- review. It would mean so much to me and it would make my exam-filled, dull and exhausting school week. Really. It doesn't have to be a long review, just a short:Hey I am here! would be enough for me. I mean, I know that you are there- this reader traffic feature is really lovely. So...please. A lot of work has gone into this, and even though I love to write, I'd also like to know whether you like it or not.  
_

_And I wish to thank **gymgurl**,for reviewing the last chapter. Thank you!_

_Sachita  
_

* * *

**42. At Sundown**

*****  
**

"Why did you refuse? Why?" There was a sense of urgency, a hint of anger, maybe not at her but at the circumstances, and Isolde looked at Arthur for a long time until she answered.

"I love my child, Arthur."

The morning brought a definite chill with it. Thin mists hung in the air and filled it with clean, fresh humidity. Isolde exhaled sharply and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the soft breeze that had sprung up. Arthur gave her a sideways look, removed his cloak and handed it to her, a silent act of chivalry.

Isolde smiled at him wanly, for she was too cold to attempt a more genuine smile- and even if it had been warmer, she wouldn't have been able to.

"A mother's love," Arthur mused, "is a strange thing indeed."

"Not so strange," Isolde replied with quiet resolve. "Look around you, Arthur. All those men you see- have they not had mothers who cared for them? Have they not had mothers who saw to their needs whilst their fathers spent their time on the battlefields?"

Arthur sighed. "I did not expect another reply, Isolde," he admitted ruefully, "for it seems certainly that there is nothing crueler to be asked of a mother than to kill her own child, even if it would be better for herself."

A strange feeling made Isolde tremble underneath its force. It was, she realised, a strange blend of mad, hysterical certainty and firm determination. "My child," she said and was proud that her voice only wavered a little, effectively disguising the trepidation within, "shall smell the clean forest air after a rain shower. My child shall see the vivid sunsets in summer. My child shall hear the birdsong in a quiet valley. And if," she hesitated and looked out towards the Woods, this time unable to hide that feeling of hysterical conviction, "it takes my own life for my child to live, then so be it. I would give it gladly."

Arthur gazed at her strangely and full of a rarely-seen intensity. "The Lord praise you," he breathed.

"I do not believe in your God, Arthur," Isolde told him dispassionately. "For a god who teaches fairness and mercy to those who believe in him, these very believers conduct themselves in a poor manner."

Arthur exhaled sharply. This topic had always been a point of dispute between them, but she sensed that he did not wish to bring it up now.

And she was proven right, for he said wearily: "I do not wish to discuss that point now, Isolde."

"We would never find an agreement anyway." She smiled at him and he laughed shortly: "You are probably right."

***

Loud neighing from their left diverted their attention for a moment and they watched as a group of Roman legionnaires, looking regal in their set of armor with the red cape billowing in the wind, passed them. Large groups of them had been departing for weeks now, leaving the fortress strangely empty and devoid of the harsh Latin sounds, that Isolde had become accustomed to hear. It left a strange emptiness in her heart, for even though she was not fond of Roman red, this colour had brought a certain security with it. All that was left now was an empty void, and as if to prove her right, a sharp gust of wind howled through the open door of a hut nearby and rattled through the wood.

"I feel as if we are on the edge of something," Isolde told Arthur and wrapped the shawl tighter around her thin shoulders.

Arthur gazed at her. "Yes, we are Isolde," he affirmed, and Isolde did not even notice the exhaustion in his voice any longer as she had become accustomed to hearing it. "You are leaving for Sarmatia tomorrow."

"I know," Isolde replied quietly. "Still, there is something else…" But she could not have put the feeling in words, and so she disregarded it, giving Arthur what she hoped was a brave smile.  
"You could come to Rome with me," Arthur said suddenly and some of her mad determination seemed to have been transmitted to him, for he gripped her hands with a newfound intensity and looked at her with a fierce light in the green eyes.

"The Roman healers have much knowledge of medicine, Isolde. They could save your life!"

His words had startled Isolde not only because of their meaning but also because of the manner he had said it in. There was no joy in his voice when he spoke of Rome, like it had been in former times.

"You won't go to Rome," she realised suddenly. "You won't go," she repeated firmly.

Arthur gazed at her in silent surprise. "I am entertaining the thought of staying, yes," he replied heavily.

Isolde whirled around. Her sudden anger startled away some of Vanora's children, who had been standing nearby, probably eavesdropping.

"Guinevere did this, didn't she?" Isolde hissed angrily. Without waiting for a reply, she continued heatedly: "She convinced you to stay here, to aid her in that selfish quest!"

This time the anger was directed at her. "Do not speak of her in such a way!" Arthur growled fiercely.  
Isolde's own anger evaporated immediately and made way for sad realisation. "You are in love with her," she mumbled.

"Very well," she continued blankly, "then I suppose I shall have to concede the point." The Gaul gathered her long skirts up and wanted to depart, but Arthur's hand on her arm kept her from doing so.

"Don't," he said quickly. "Do you not understand the need to fight for your own land, Isolde?" His voice was filled with more passion than she would have thought possible, and as she gazed in his eyes, she discovered an ocean rich with idealism and conviction, which had flooded the lands accommodating Rome's desert of conviction in former times.

She freed herself from his grip. "I have never fought for my land, Arthur," she said matter-of-factly and remembered with a bittersweet feeling those wind-blown birches, the grey stormy sea and the grainy beaches of Gaul.

"Do what your conviction tells you to do then, Arthur."

He looked relieved and let the matter drop, even though he sensed that he could not convince her fully.

"The knights will take it hard. You are destroying their dreams."

Arthur looked like a little lost boy, but he regained his wits quickly and retorted: "I do not destroy their dreams. They may return home."

Isolde could not help a small, derisive snort of laughter, which caused Arthur to look at her in silent indignation and bewilderment. She ignored him. For a man as brilliant as Arthur he could be remarkably short-sighted at times.

"Their dreams," she explained tersely, "include your return to your beloved Rome. Then, they think, they have succeeded in their quest to keep you safe."

"No," Arthur replied in obvious confusion, "they are free men! I have always treated them with the respect and the degree of freedom that I can offer them!"

Isolde laughed in bitter mirth. "Have you ever considered the possibility, Arthur, that your men might not follow you out of duty, but out of the feelings of love and loyalty you inspired in them? You have put them in chains in spite of your ideals, but those are chains they carry willingly and devotedly. There is no real freedom, Arthur."

Arthur's eyes looked broken, somehow. In a hoarse voice he said: "But I won't alter my decision."

"No," Isolde smiled sorrowfully. "And they would never ask you to do so even though you will find them falling into pieces without you as their leader." Tears shone in her eyes and she had to stifle a sob.

Arthur put a calming hand on her arm. Even though the devastation that her revelation had brought was still plainly visible in his eyes, he possessed enough of his kindness for that small gesture. Somehow, that thought made Isolde's eyes burn even more.

"You are a great woman, Isolde, and I am proud to know you."

Isolde looked at him tearfully. "Who knows, what tomorrow brings, Arthur?"

Arthur smiled in a serene manner. "Someone told me once, that each day brings a new sunrise, and I chose to believe that someone."

Isolde smiled back at him with a brave little smile, but before she could have said something, Bors's rough, grief-stricken voice called: "Arthur! Isolde! We are ready."

Giving Isolde a last nod, Arthur made his way heavily to where the little cortege with Dagonet's still body was waiting. Looking at his strong back, Isolde wondered how often he had had to perform the sad duty of sending one of his men to their grave in this life already. She doubted she wanted to know.

* * *

"May the winds of peace grant you a good journey home, my friend," Gawain said softly. The others murmured blessings in Sarmatian and the wind picked their quiet words up, scattering them in a strong eastwards breeze.

Gawain accepted the box Tristan held out to him with a grim face and placed it atop the mound of their valiant brother.

"Goodbye, old friend." Gawain's words were sorrowful and sad, while he knelt under the watchful gazes of his brothers. "Won't be long soon."

Dagonet…Isolde sighed. He had become a stallion, or so the Sarmatians whispered at their campfires, whispered of great warriors returning in the form of their valiant companions, but somehow Isolde could not bring herself to believe in those legends. Instead the world felt cold and dead, and she shivered in the cool winter air.

They had told Isolde of how he had died, and she had not been surprised.

Dagonet, the gentle one, Dagonet, the merciful one. Somehow, protecting all of them seemed like the logical way for him to go.

"Tell me what awaits us after death, Dagonet my friend", Isolde mumbled softly in her native language, Gallic. "Maybe I shall join you soon."

Arthur glanced at her sharply and Isolde wondered absent-mindedly if he understood her language.

***

Tristan meanwhile did not look at her; he hadn't done so since she had informed the healer of her unwillingness to sacrifice her child in order to save her own life.

But she knew in her heart that her decision had been the right one. She loved this child, loved it with all her heart and wanted for it a life that had been denied to her and Tristan all these years. A peaceful life, a life without the constant worries of war and bloodshed- a safe life and a long life.

Arthur watched them all for a long moment and then he turned abruptly away, disappearing behind some mounds. Isolde narrowed her eyes as she saw Guinevere, who followed Arthur. Another's eyes had followed the pair and Isolde returned Lancelot's look with a fierce glare of her own. He inclined his head and Isolde looked away, until her eyes found Tristan.

She looked at Tristan but even though she was sure that he was aware of her gaze he did not look back, instead he turned away slightly. Hurt by his actions, she turned around and walked away quickly. All the way back to the fort her head was held high.

***

Tristan looked after Isolde's slight form. She was getting lost amongst the shifting backs of the few villagers and acquaintances that had been there for Dagonet's burial, and he strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of her black curls in the crowd.

"Go after her." Gawain.

Tristan eyed him coldly. "I do not see how this is your business," he growled, the harsh accent tinting his words and emphasizing his words in a threatening manner.

Gawain looked at him…and shook his head. He turned his back to Tristan and the scout understood that there was more to his action. He stared at Gawain's back for a long moment with balled fists, the blackest darkest anger shimmering in the depths of his amber glare, then abruptly turned around and stalked off in the other direction.

Gawain watched him go. "Oh, you fool, Tristan," he mumbled. "You asinine fool."

***

Tristan tore through the meadows like one possessed. He might have looked like a demon or a sprite from the Woods judging from the way he moved forwards, hair wild and freely-falling into his eyes.

Soon the meadow changed to light undergrowth and again he did not care. He just kept walking. The bushes tore at his clothes, scratched his hands and hurt his legs. Did it matter?

He was a man on the brink, a man who might lose everything in the next moment. Tristan had always liked to have control and he had never had so less control in his entire life as he had now.

Isolde, his beautiful Isolde, his woman. His woman. This child was destroying her. She was too weak, too weak to carry it out, damn it! How could she not see? She was his to lose and damn himself if he allowed that to happen! No! He would not, he could not allow that to happen. Her way was beside his and he would keep her at his side, no matter what the cost.

But what could he do? The sudden wave of helplessness rolled over him and drowned him when he was just riding on the crest.

"NO!" He shouted. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, but it was a cold sweat and he only noticed it when its salty burn reached his eyes.

"No!"And again, he went tearing through the Woods like a madman. But when he reached a small clearing his willpower was crushed, his strength fading and he fell to his knees with a small, disbelieving: "No."

***

He could not have said how long he sat there and he could not have said how much time had passed, when a sharp young voice said: "Hey! What are you doing there, lazing about like that?"

Tristan looked up. A Roman. A young Roman legionnaire, presumably one of the troops who were leaving today and tomorrow. Maybe he was a scout, sent out to scout the outer perimeters.

Tristan didn't care. With a single, ferocious snarl he jumped up from the ground and knocked the Roman down from his horse. He did not heed the Roman's protest calls, he did not even know why he had done so, could not have explained his actions if someone had asked.

All he knew was that feral feeling that coursed through his veins and made him dizzy. Everything blurred, his actions were just a mix of colours and sound and he did not have the strength to stop, for even though the beast inside of him was unleashed and set free he felt at the same time as if he might fall unconscious in the next moment only because of the dizziness that assaulted him.

With a feral sound he ripped his dagger from his belt and struggled with the legionnaire, who was desperately trying to free his throat from Tristan's battle-hardened iron grip. The glinting metal at the Roman's throat, Tristan was prepared to stab out, when the Roman suddenly choked in a weak voice:

"Let me go! You are hurting me!"

A nasty shock rippled through Tristan and he released the Roman immediately. He got up slowly and stumbled back a few steps, gazing at his hand and then at the dagger he had nearly embedded in the legionnaire's throat with a certain sense of incredulity and also in horror.

Isolde's words from a day ago came into his mind: "Tristan, let go of me! You're hurting me!"

The words danced around him and taunted him silently. "No," Tristan gasped nearly breathless. "No."

"You madman," the Roman on the ground choked. He was slowly sitting up and glaring at Tristan while he massaged his throat.

Tristan ignored him. With a dazed feeling he stumbled back into the Woods slowly, nearly tripping and falling. He was trembling wildly, sweat still made its way over his forehead in small rivulets, and distractedly he wondered whether he had a fever.

He must have stumbled through the Woods for a long time, for his steps faltered when he saw the fortress loom up in front of him. Darkness was approaching and with it came the certain smell of fire and the feeling of anxiety in the air.

***

Tristan stumbled on and took the stairs to the Wall in awkward movements that were completely devoid of his usual grace. He recognized the figures of his brother knights who were already standing on the Wall.

"Tristan," Gawain greeted him and even though there was dim curiousity in his eyes as he saw the state the scout was in, he did not comment upon it.

"Look."

And Tristan did look- there they were. An entire Army. The Saxons were there and it were many of them. Their fires lit up the blue horizon in a cruel light and the smoke stung his eyes.

"The Saxons," Galahad stated matter-of-factly and Tristan nearly felt like explaining to the pup, that there was no need to point something so blatantly obvious out to them, but he refrained from doing so, merely because the weariness he felt within had begun to muddle his senses and also his ability to form a sharp reply.

"Move! Moove!" A sharp bellow preceded Arthur's arrival.

"Make way! Make way!"

Arthur stood on the Wall and looked out to the Saxon fires. Tristan surveyed him with that impassiveness that had always come as an advantage for him. Arthur would not go.

He would stay. But somehow, that revelation did not shake Tristan as much as it probably should, but he realised soon that some desperate part of him was still clinging to the hope, that maybe, maybe just for once, the seasoned scout inside of him had been wrong. However that very scout was certain and he waited with trepidation for Arthur's words.

"Knights, my journey with you must end here."

He let his green gaze wander over each and every one of them, they, who were still left! and when his eyes found Tristan's, Tristan read a quiet determination in them that left him feeling empty. No matter what they tried, Arthur would not be swayed from his decision.

"May God go with you." And for once, the mention of Arthur's god did not disturb them. In fact they were in too much of a daze but Tristan's subconscious finished the sentence as it to taunt him: May God go with you for he has already left me. Arthur was a dead man and there was nothing they could do. And Tristan could only watch in quiet confusion as he was confronted with the complete destruction of his world, when Arthur turned around and walked away, just left them standing there like the last fifteen years had not happened.

Lancelot stared at them, then at Arthur's back and ran after aforementioned man, his steps loud and angry like the wounds the man's departure had inflicted on him. Lancelot was broken, without a purpose and this was a last desperate attempt to keep the pieces together.

Tristan knew it.

When Arthur had gone, the knights slowly departed. First, Galahad and Gawain left, and then Bors did, with a last grumble that Tristan assumed was supposed to be a greeting.

He looked out in the dark abyss below and then to the campfires of the Saxons. Arthur would stay. Arthur had chosen his own destiny, after all they were free men now, weren't they? Free…He longed to destroy something, to let his anger and devastation out, but all that came was a bitter, exhausted sound and an acid taste on his tongue.

"Tristan…"

Isolde. His Isolde. She stood there, gazing at him with that silent fire in her green eyes and he wondered how he could have been so hard to her.

"Isolde," he greeted quietly and maintained his earlier silence.

* * *

"Isolde," he greeted her. Isolde reflected that he looked bad. His hands were bloody and scratched and he was pale underneath his weathered skin.

"Tristan, come with me," she requested softly and he still did not say anything. He just followed her, and it was then that she realised her earlier words to Arthur had been entirely true. The knights were falling apart, and Tristan was, too.

"Come on," she said and walked quicker, if only to prevent herself from walking straight to Arthur and demanding that he altered his decision. Now.

She led the way through the dim corridors, only sporadically lightened by a torch on the dry stone walls. It was silent which was a rarity in itself, for usually the occasional Roman word could be heard or even the guttural language of the Britons. But there was nothing. Only the silence and the sound of their quiet footsteps were there in the long corridor.

Isolde pulled Tristan into her chambers and again, he did not resist.

Then, once again they were standing there in the silence, and Isolde shuffled quietly about until she found a candle that she lit. Now its flickering light illuminated their faces in a constant unsteadiness- emphasizing his right cheekbone and then the shadows under his eyes. Isolde raised her hand and ran a light finger across his right cheekbone.

"This is how I love you, my Tristan," she said softly and lifted the finger to her own lips, pressing a kiss on it. She returned the finger to his lips and sealed his questioning look with a light touch.

She explored his face like a mountain would be explored, starting with his high cheekbones, following those mountain ridges onto his nose, a hillock amidst plains of wide brown desert. Thick dark eyebrows, elegant like the feathers of a bird of war. Amber eyes, quick and intelligent and there: a forehead with deep creases in it; streams that were meant to be crossed with careful consideration. His lips, wide and deftly-swung like the smooth stones down in a cool river. And his beard: moss on jagged rocks.

He caught her finger finally and stared at her indecipherably for a long moment.

Then, finally, a long shuddering sigh trembled through his body, the scent of spring after a particularly long winter. He bent his head down and buried it in her hair, holding her close to his body. She inhaled his scent of leather and sweat and felt his breaths hit the base of her neck.

"Tristan," she whispered in a voice laced with desire.

He pulled back slightly- his eyes were like the glowing embers of a fierce fire. And after that it was just a matter of hands tearing impatiently at garments, kisses, hastily scattered over bare skin, touches, light at first then firmer and a burning desire that left them out of breath and soaked in sweat.

They were entangled in each other's arms. Tristan turned to Isolde, softly kissing her hair. He threaded it through his fingers and watched how the moonlight was captured on it, intermingling with the golden shine of the flickering candle.

"If there shall be no tomorrow…" he started softly.

"If there shall be no tomorrow…" she echoed and they both listened as her words penetrated the thick silence.

"Know that I will be there," he whispered in her ear. "I will be in the shining drops of dew. In a swift rush of wind. The sun's glare at midday and the sunset's mild greetings in the evening."

***

Isolde turned in his arms and he could feel her heart picking up a faster pace. She looked up at him through dark strands with wide green eyes.

"There will be a tomorrow."

Tristan looked at her silently and marveled at her: her ribs were visible through her skin because she had never fully recovered from her ordeal. Thin blue paths could be seen through the pale skin of her legs, where the blood was tirelessly pumped through her body. And he loved to look at her hands; those pale, creamy hands, which had been the first glimpse he had gotten of her.

"I saw your hands first," he stated softly. "When I met you," he clarified and caught those hands in his own, stroking them lightly.

"But they are just hands…" Isolde protested with a quiet laugh.

"No," he corrected, "not just hands." He cleared his throat. "Someone once said: They are your hands and they belong uniquely to you. I think they are beautiful."

Isolde smiled at him with quiet elation in her eyes. "You remembered."

"I did." She looked at him quietly and he added, for he knew that it had to be said:

"Do not worry about our child. I support you."

"Yes?" She gasped and covered his face in kisses.

He allowed a small smile to creep on his features. "Yes," he stated shortly.

Silence reigned for a while, and then Tristan told her quietly:

"Remember Isolde, no matter where I shall be gone, no matter what tomorrow might bring, we will meet again. In this life or the next one. That is a promise."

Outside, the pale light of the moon shivered and trembled in preparation for the new day, while the smoke that arose from the Saxons' campfires formed a strange contrast against this silver light : black shrouds like that of a widow in mourning hung motionlessly in front of the huge orb.

Then, a slight breeze sprang up and scattered those black smokes to all points of the compass.

* * *

_tbc_


	43. None can die

_Author's Note at the end of this chapter._

* * *

**43. None Can Die**

*****  
**

The day of the last stand of the Britons started swathed in grey mists, as if the sun itself had veiled her face so she didn't have to look at the slaughter that was imminent and hanging menacingly in the air, a disturbing, almost tangible presence.

The knights seemed sombre and Isolde regarded them with wearied eyes. Time and time again, their eyes would stray to the solitary figure astride on the hill, the banner of a dwindling Empire proudly displayed.

She watched as Bors rode forward furiously, shouting out a greeting to the lone rider on the hill. At first they didn't think they would get a reply, but then the standard was being raised and the rider shouted a distant greeting. Isolde averted her eyes with a bittersweet smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Arthur. She had rarely met such an intense, well-educated man who believed with such conviction in such honourable principles. Their good-bye had been a heart-felt one and she knew that she would miss him, but somehow, she couldn't completely believe in this good-bye already...she didn't know why, but something made her think that she would see Arthur again. The smoke from the multiple fires burned in Isolde's eyes, and absent-mindedly she wiped at them, listening to the rumbling of the carriage underneath her body. Suddenly the rumbling was overlaid by steady, menacing drumming and Isolde flinched, when she recognised the characteristic sound of Saxon drums.

Thump, thump, thump-it matched the beating of her heart and she winced, when the knights' horses neighed in agitation and moved about wildly.

Bale was in the air and it had finally arrived. _Thump, thump, thump._ She couldn't have told one sound from the other.

***

Sharp amber eyes sought hers suddenly and a low, familiar voice stated: "Isolde." She flinched violently.

"Tristan," she mumbled under her breath and watched as his eyes slid over to the other knights, who had seemed to reach a kind of silent agreement. Suddenly, the mood changed, and despite the grey clouds hanging over the land, a new hope seemed to fill Arthur's warriors. And aye, they were Arthur's, they had always been Arthur's, Isolde realised in that moment. Hopelessness arose in her and choked every feeling.

Tristan dismounted and walked over to her. She watched him come with a feeling of helpless uncertainty.

"My Lady," he murmured and took her arm. "Mine."

In a show of heart-felt, rarely-seen affection he took her in his arms and pressed her close to his heart. "My Isolde," he breathed and she inhaled his scent deeply: he smelled of nature, of rainwater, of battle and of forest. "Tristan..." she sighed and he held her close, uncaring of what the others might think. Then, out of the sudden, he took her face in his calloused hands and kissed her with all the fervour of a drowning man. Everything seemed to be in that kiss, their realm and all of his love and it seemed to Isolde that if she were to die in that very moment, she would die the happiest person in the world.

It was an uncertain happiness, though, and as soon as his lips left hers, she breathlessly and acutely felt the loss of that contact, that warm firmness, and tears shot into her eyes. "Tristan..." In vain, she stretched her hands out to keep him with her.

"Remember, a promise, Isolde," he said and searched her eyes, stroking her cheeks with a calloused thumb. "A promise."

"Come what may..." she sighed.

"...we will meet again," he finished for her heavily. One last kiss and a breathless "I love you," and he was astride, Sarmatian armour proudly gleaming in a sudden sun ray.

Blind with tears, she watched him go. Tristan, her Tristan.

"Look at the glittering of the ocean waves, my Lady," he said quietly, but intently. "Remember, a promise."

"A promise," she repeated softly, mechanically, and watched as the man she loved rode away. Inside of her, a part of her withered and died.

* * *

Tristan rode away to battle. He knew that he might very well die there, but he was not afraid. He knew that he would meet her again, if he was to die- of that he was certain. And so he met the battle unafraid, head-on. Looking back, he saw that Isolde had raised her arm in silent farewell. He shifted the weight of the standard and replied in kind.

Isolde. Tristan wondered if she knew what she meant to him. She was his morning dew, his midday sun and his evening calm. She was everything.

And so the knight rode into battle, and the Lady waited.

* * *

The battle din had quietened down and Isolde stood hesitantly. She heard in the silence of her mind how her heartbeat sped up. Quickly, she hopped down from the wagon. She had to know and so she started to run up the hill, not heeding Vanora's frantic calls of "Isolde!"

All that Isolde could hear was the sound of her hectic breathing, the rustling of her skirts in the wind and the beat of her drumming heart in her ears.

She reached the peak of the hill and looked down. She slid to a frantic stop and cried out in pain and disbelief. The whole field was littered with bodies, Saxons, blue-tinted Woads and…and…_Oh gods, please no!_

She had to find him. She had to make sure that he was unhurt. She had _to-to-_tofind him.

Find him.

That thought was, what she repeated as a numb mantra, over and over again in her head.  
It matched the beating of her heart.

Find him. Thump. Find him. Thump. Find him. Find. Find. Him. Him. Him.

She ran down the slope, barely aware of her own steps through the haze surrounding her thoughts. Find him.

Black smoke rose up all over the field, getting caught up in shifting mists, as if the goddess of the earth wanted to prevent her from seeing this horror.

Blood stained the earth; blood was smeared all over the motionless corpses.

Isolde screamed in horror, when she fell on the corpse of a young Woad boy, head-first.

She scrambled up; nearly fell again, stumbled farther and farther.

Discarded weapons lay around. Find him. Him.

She stumbled over the body of Saxons, Woads, Britons.

The stench of the bodies made her choke and sob in helplessness.

She found the body of another Saxon, his large body lying on the ground like a plump rag doll. Blond, long hair obscured his face. She only took notice of him because of the fine embroidery on his cloak. Must have been an important one, cloth of finer material, had been old, body still warm, but did it matter- no- no- she had to keep- keep- find-

***

She never got to finish that last thought.

All her senses became muddled. Blackness danced in front of her eyes, threatened to overwhelm her. And then, it bubbled over, the blackness, overwhelmed her, killed all feeling inside her, until she was numb, numb, _**numb!**_

"NOOOOO!" An animalistic howl sounded somewhere nearby.

It didn't sound like a human scream, but still, it was her screaming. The sound of the deepest despair and it rang sharply over the field, making people pause and look up as the sound shattered the air. It sounded as if it had come straight out of the underworld, and many people said a hasty prayer to their gods.

"NOOOO!" The sound broke over her lips. She wasn't aware that she was kneeling in the mud, wasn't aware that it was her howling. The blood pounded in her ears and she clawed hysterically, without even feeling it, at her face, leaving bloody scratches. Her eyes saw nothingness, save for his eyes. His eyes that would never look at her again!

Another tortured howl and she screamed and screamed, her face distorted in madness.

She was running out of air, but she had to keep screaming denial.

Otherwise she might accept the fact, that he was…dead.

Her Tristan was dead. She couldn't scream anymore.

Tears came like merciful rain. She crawled over to his body.

"No…" she sobbed brokenly, touching his still face, his arms, his strong arms, that had held her so many nights, his eyes, forever closed, never more their amber light to see.

"Tristan…" It was but a quiet sigh. She held onto his body, kissed his still, blood-streaked face. _Who did this to you, my lover? Why? You were supposed to come home; you were supposed to be always there! Just imagine, you and I on a sunny day, riding along the old paths, while sun shines on our faces….and maybe a hut, I'd cook the meals….maybe a little, dark-haired girl chasing a laughing little boy around the hills…you'd wrap your arms around me and shield me from the harsh outside world….Wouldn't it be nice?_

Reason was sliding out of her grasp.

All that she knew was this moment. He would wake up soon, wouldn't he? A brief smirk on his features, that smirk she had loved to see.

"Isolde…" he would say in that lilting accent.

"Isolde…" There! She had heard it. A hysterical, slightly crazed laugh bubbled over her lips.

"Isolde…"

"Tristan?"

She looked up hesitatingly. But it was all wrong! Blond hair, blue eyes- wrong!

* * *

"Tristan?"

Her tentative question brought a wave of tears to his eyes. Isolde was huddling next to the broken and bloody body of one of their best- Tristan, he reflected sadly, who would never see the rolling plains of the land they held in their hearts again.

"Love, it's Gawain…" he stated softly, his voice unsteady.

"No…" she whimpered, unseeing.

The senselessness of the death all around him hit him and he bellowed, in a show of temper rarely seen on the calm Gawain:

"Why does justice veil her eyes when we need her the most?"

He lowered his gaze from the cloudy sky to look at the woman and his dead brother.

Isolde was rocking back and forth. It was like looking death itself in the eye.

"Isolde!" he tried. She didn't react.

Gawain couldn't bring himself to do anything. Instead he took it all in, the way Tristan was sprawled out on the ground, the blood oozing from his wounds, the braids he had always thought of having a life of their own, now lying on the ground, still. It was so wrong and it burned harshly in his mouth, that wrongness.  
Tristan was a man, who was always in motion. Never still like that. Not even when he slept, when Gawain had had the rare occasions of observing their elusive scout undisturbed, for the man had a glare….had had a glare…Gods, no!

He stared at one of Tristan's daggers lying carelessly at the scout's side. Memories of warm nights in the tavern assaulted him. Tristan with a smug, superior grin as he bested them yet again at knife throwing. How he wished the scout would get up, smirk so infuriatingly and tell him in his calm manner, how wretched he was at knife-throwing.

***

Truth assaulted Gawain in a harsh manner and his eyesight blurred.  
"Tristan…" he breathed and stifled a harsh sob. _We should be free. It is not right._

"Gawain, lad…" someone mumbled and put a heavy hand on his shoulder. Bors.

Then a harsh gasp, as Bors looked past him. There was no need for words.

Another sharp sound at his side. Galahad, whose young face was drawn in pain.

"You should have never been exposed to that life, Galahad," he told the boy, and yes, a boy to him, absentmindedly.

Galahad didn't appear to have heard. "How I regret all those harsh words, I ever said…"

He whispered strickenly. They watched with dead eyes, how he desperately tried to calm down with great gulps of air and widened eyes.

Bors stared at Isolde.

"I'll take her," Gawain said heavily.

"Ye do that, old boy…" Bors said slowly, clapping his shoulder. "I'll take him…"

Isolde didn't react when he approached, but when he wanted to take her up in his arms, away from Tristan's still body, life returned to her.

Like a fury, she lashed out at him, screaming, scratching, shrieking.

"Isolde, love, it's alright," he mumbled thickly, even though it was not and in the instant the words had left his mouth he felt like a fool.

He held her tightly in his arms as if she was child, held-back tears pricking his eyes.

She grabbed him tightly around the neck then and her hold almost suffocated him.

But he didn't let go, didn't even flinch, when his body began to tremble along with hers under the force of her violent sobs.

"Isolde…," he said helplessly and stroked her dark head. "Isolde…"

***

They walked over to where they saw Arthur sitting, dread building up in their stomachs until they thought they could bear this pain no longer, as it chafed at their souls and clawed at their hearts.

Bors's burden was one of the heaviest he had ever had to carry in his life. He remembered each and every of his brothers he had carried off the battlefield that way. All of them had weighed so heavily on his broad shoulders, like Tristan did now, his limp arms dangling over Bors's shoulder, his head hanging down, braids swaying gently in the slight breeze.

So still, so unlike Tristan.

"Ye were a good lad," Bors thought to the limp man on his shoulders. "A good man."

He looked over to Isolde, who was in Gawain's arms. She looked unaware of everything that was going on around her.

He shook his head sadly, then his eyes wandered over to where Arthur sat, or rather….whom he was sitting in front of.

They all nearly stopped in horror. Not him too. Not another knight to be mourned.

_Lancelot._

Isolde abruptly whimpered, her green eyes fixed on the scene.

"Let me down," she demanded suddenly and even though her voice was faint and dead, some awareness had returned to her eyes.

Surprised, Gawain let her down. She walked on to Arthur and to Guinevere, who sat at Lancelot's sides. She stood there, just gazing down at him, while Bors struggled to put Tristan down next to him. It was Galahad, who helped him.

And so they all stood, looking down at the ones they'd lost, a lover, a best friend, a comrade.

Up in the grey air, the piercing scream of a hawk sounded.

Isolde looked up. She was a cloud, there, floating in the sky of grey numbness, lost to the sensations of wind and rain.

Never to come down again.

* * *

_*pushes box with tissues discreetly over to you and hands you a chocolate chip cookie*_

_So. I did it. But I promise, there will still be a good end. I know, I know, and I am sorry, really, but this story was always supposed to end like that. I admit honestly, that I cried while writing this. It is a strange feeling to let go of a character that has accompanied you for four long years. But there is an end to everything, and so, please, don't hate me (= Like I said, I have a good ending in store for you._

_That having been said, I would like to thank you for your wonderful, wonderful reviews! Heavens, I thought you had all left, so I am truly grateful to see you all once again! Thank you so much, everyone! Thank you, **sbuxhummingbird (hi! welcome aboard- see my profile for a review reply), Rhysel, gymgurl, Lairiel (= and **of course **CarolinaJuliette! **You are all great. Lairiel, CarolinaJuliette- I hope you did well in your exams and good luck for them!  
_

_Also, I would like to apologise. I am sure you have waited for this chapter. School, unfortunately, keeps me busy these days, and I am not even supposed to be here and update this, so shhh! :D_

_The next update will be soon. As you can surely guess, we are on our way to the end of this story, which makes me both sad and happy._

_-Sachita_


	44. We Filled The Silence with Sound

_Hi everyone! I am sorry for the long time I needed to update this story. School has been terrible recently, filled with exams and I barely had any time to write anything. Still, I am sorry for I know that you have probably waited for this update._

_Thank you very very much for your reviews for the last chapter. You are truly great! I am sorry for making you cry (or those of you who I made cry), really! The happy ending will come- just look out for the next chapter. This next chapter will be updated by the latest on Sunday. That I can promise. As of tomorrow, we have holidays and so I'll be able to update soon. After that next chapter we only have the epilogue...weird._

_Anyway, thank you so much for your reviews (150 reviews, Wow! :D) ,** Lairiel, gymgurl, Erin (see profile for review reply, and welcome aboard (=), anarane2 (Hi and welcome to the story! :D), RHP24 (welcome and see profile for review reply :D) , Rhysel and CarolinaJuliette! You are awesome!**_

_Next update will be soon!_

_Greetings,_

_Sachita_

_P.S.: Oh and please don't be angry with me if replying to your reviews might still take until tomorrow. My time is unfortunately short as school tries to get me again (aaah! *runs*), but I didn't want to keep you waiting for this update any longer.  
_

* * *

**44. We Filled The Silence With Sound**

*****  
**

* * *

_The pale moonlight kissed her tear-streaked face and painted glimmering paths on her face._

"_Why?" The clouds carried her breathless whisper to the stars, which were reflected in her eyes. She blinked rapidly and looked down to the placid water of the lake. The stars still adorned her face with splendid wreaths and added brilliance to the dark waves of her hair._

_But the longer she looked she only saw herself, the reflection of a woman who watched herself falling apart ever so slowly. A leaf fell in the water and dispelled the impression. Mesmerised she watched how it blurred the shape of her lips, drifted over her face, brought the water in motion and erased her eyes. When her face was all but an unrecognisable shape, she stared at it silently, and then reached up to touch it, discovering that everything was at its rightful place._

_Strangely enough, it was that realisation which made her fall to her knees. An unspeakable grief inside made a dry sob escape from her lips and it echoed oddly in the sudden silence._

_

* * *

  
_

Pensively, Isolde picked her path through the swaying grass-blades of a meadow. Her thoughts wandered back to that night. She had known that she had to leave in that very night and it had been a lonely decision, yet one she had had to make when she had looked down at her reflection in the water, wondering who that woman was. She had found no answer yet.

So here she was, walking through a spring meadow, past quiet buttercups and through seemingly endless arrays of small white flowers. The moon stroked her face with a yellow buttery light and the trees' comforting feathery whisper drowned the hoarse scream of that part of her that hadn't stopped screaming inside her head since his—since he had died.

A hand that gave her a sign to stop wrenched her out of her thoughts. It was a strong hand, as strong as its owner: Áedh. He had appeared out of nowhere in that night, silent like a ghost.

"Where do you want to go?" he had asked.

"Away," she had said simply. She had not said a word to anyone, had not even said her good-byes, but Aedh hadn't asked her about it. He had not asked any further questions either, nor had he offered his sympathy. In fact he spoke close to nothing. He seemed to understand that she was not able to exist outside of the numb, white quiet of her mind, where no one bothered her and no one harmed her. Where nothing harmed her.

Branwaine, however, hadn't been so understanding. Isolde looked over to her stubborn second companion in silent gratitude. It had surely been a remarkable occasion, when Branwaine had waited for her at the door, a packhorse at the ready.

"Where do you think you are going, Miss?" Branwaine had asked her sharply.

"Away." Isolde's reply had not been particularly harsh or plaintive- just a simple statement.

"Without me? Don't think you are going anywhere without me."

Isolde had stared at her vacantly. "What about Artanus?"

"All taken care of."

Mild curiosity had prompted her to ask. "How did you-?"

"Please. I have known you all your life. Besides, it was obvious."

Had it been obvious? Isolde had found that she hadn't been able to bring herself to care.

However, there had been no way to stop Branwaine from coming and in the end Isolde's indifferent weariness had prevented her from protesting much. And she was grateful for her friend's loud presence.

***

"What is it?" Branwaine asked as she came to stand next to Áedh.

"The sea," he said with a note of finality in his voice. "We have arrived. Down there is an empty little cottage."

They had arrived. Finally. And then, as Áedh stepped aside, Isolde could see the sea in all its dark splendour that slowly eased to a bluish grey, as the first tendrils of the dawn approached the land. It stretched out to infinite horizons, but she knew that somewhere out there was a wind-blown country, grainy beaches and sinewy birch forests- there- there- just beyond the horizon. She sank down on a rock and looked over to the steep cliffs. A path clung to the harsh landscape and disappeared somewhere beyond her peripheral vision.

She turned to the right, where smoke rose up beyond some hillocks.

"A village." Branwaine voiced Isolde's unspoken thoughts out loud. So, yes, maybe there was a village. Did it matter? Nothing mattered anymore. She contemplated what it would be like to stay on this rock for eternity, but then she thought about the kicking, vivacious life inside of her body and looked up.

"A village," she murmured. A village- and she thought of friendly, familiar faces in another life- the woman from next door whom she had admired because she had raised a herd of children all by herself for her man was always away- a sense of belonging, warm sun rays in summer, red-cheeked faces in winter, muddy paths in autumn, always the danger of the swamplands too close for comfort, swarms of mosquitoes in spring- yet it had been all theirs. A village, that was what it had been. A home, for some time, until she had found the home somewhere else- or so she had thought.

Branwaine took a long look at Isolde and said finally: "I will go."

Áedh announced suddenly: "I will depart now." And with a trace of his usual good spirits, he smiled warmly at Isolde. His words, however, seemed to be exactly the opposite.

"I will see you behind the grey veil of this world," he said sincerely.

Branwaine, who had watched the proceedings with a critical eye, gasped.

"How dare you!" she shrieked furiously, but when she looked at Isolde, a shudder ran down her back and her anger evaporated immediately, for her friend was smiling at Áedh in a very strange, twisted way.

And while Branwaine tried to hide her discomfort, Áedh had disappeared in the bushes.

* * *

Isolde walked down the path that seemed to cling to the cliffs in a show of desperate bravery. A small frown twisted her face, as she looked on across the wide shore. Her eyes found a large brown something and she walked closer.

It was a little wind-blown cottage that clung to the rocky beach while waves crashed tirelessly against the shoreline. The cottage Áedh had been talking about. The winds blew Isolde's hair sharply in her face and the all-too familiar prickly cold feel of sea spray on her face made her smile briefly.

"It used to belong to an old woman," Branwaine shouted over the wind from where she was advancing, her long skirts dragging through the wet sand. Her long hair fanned out behind her like a pale banner.

"Brana?" Isolde shouted.

"The people say it's been empty for years now," Branwaine panted as she came to stand in front of Isolde. She motioned to the brown-clad, suspiciously-huddled people who stood some metres away and watched them with clear mistrust. It were hard-working, earnest and poor people with furrowed faces and wearied eyes.

"They say," Branwaine continued, "that this cottage is haunted by ghosts."

Isolde shrugged. "A few more ghosts added- does it even matter?" she asked bitterly.

Branwaine didn't reply but she looked concerned and also a little irritated. "We should go," she said finally and took Isolde's arm.

Isolde allowed her to lead her down the path to the cottage, but a sudden sharp pain in her stomach made her gasp and she nearly dropped to her knees. A momentary blackness hid the world from view and when she regained her vision, she noticed that she was being held up by not only Branwaine but also by a fresh-faced red-haired woman. One of the villagers.

"Thank you," Isolde said gratefully and the young woman blushed.

"I am Aithne," the woman introduced herself. "My Lady," she added hastily. Isolde glanced down at herself and wondered why she was being referred to as Lady. However, when she looked at the rags of the villagers she knew why.

"I am no Lady," she said strongly. "My name is Isolde. This is my friend, Branwaine."

Aithne smiled shyly. "Shall I aid you to the cottage?" she asked softly.

"I would be grateful;" Isolde told her.

From then on, the villagers started to trust them gradually and slowly, hesitant relationships were built up. They asked few questions, but that was alright for Isolde. She didn't want to be asked much anyway. Her skills as a healer, however, allowed them to trade for food, whilst Branwaine bought the rest with the coins she had brought with her from passing traders, who could always be heard from afar: their loud shouts as they passed the muddy roads and the sound of their draught animals.

The days fluttered past her in a weak, ever-repeating order. Spring slowly changed into summer and Isolde's belly steadily grew. She rarely ventured outside now and rather preferred to treat the people inside their little cottage.

* * *

She was sitting on her rock, her favourite place to be. Here she could drown her gaze in the sea and get lost in the pale line of the horizon.

The hoarse cries of the seagulls formed a curious symphony with the roaring wind and the foamy uproar of the waves. It was not the same, yet held enough of the same difference to remind Isolde of a silent clearing in an all-too-green forest, days of peace that had faded away too soon. She remembered how the sun had cast bright flecks on the ground and how green the deep shadows of the Woods had been. And she remembered him....how he'd sat in that sun-flecked silence and how he had regarded her with those warm amber eyes...but still with this inscrutable...mask...on –on his face...

She choked on her words and closed her eyes to keep the tears at bay. But it was to no avail as the memories assaulted her.

The smell of the sea made her think of another sea, another time, another place. She had been so young, so foolish, so naive. She had been walking alongside the shore on that windy day and she remembered the wind in her hair with a heavy heart. Even the scent of that day was in her nose...the day she had first met him. He had been half-submerged in the frigid water, only staying afloat because of his weak grip on a piece of wood. Isolde remembered thinking that he had been lucky to survive at all...and then he had opened those amber eyes and he had looked at her. She had told him her name, and, of course, one of his first questions had been one of distrust. She smiled fleetingly and sadly. Of course she still knew what she had answered as she had kept the memories of that day close to her heart.

"_No one. But I presume that you will have to trust me. Otherwise you will die here."_

_Another cough wracked his body, and when he replied, his voice was tinged with dry amusement: "I suppose I shall trust you then."_

_Isolde smiled and was strangely captivated by his alert gaze. "And I suppose you have to. Now, may I ask you for your name, or shall I name you Strange-Man-I-found-washed-up-on-the shore?"_

"_I appreciate your efforts," came the quiet, weak reply. She wondered if he could read her thoughts. "Tristan."_

Aye, she had indeed wondered whether he had been able to read her thoughts. Tristan, her Tristan had been a man of little words but one equipped with such perceptiveness that it had been eerie at times. Wistfully she closed her eyes. She could see him, there, the amber eyes glowing as he looked at her. He extended his hand and she reached out to take it and reached farther...until she opened her eyes and discovered only thin air.

_She looked away, then again up at him. "You are a fine man, Tristan. The finest I have ever met."_

_Harshly: "Then you haven't met many men."_

"_Why do you say that?" she breathed defiantly. "Let me make my own decisions. You said so yourself."_

"_I am not a good man, Isolde," he stated flatly._

She closed her eyes painfully as she remembered that day. He had sounded so convinced of his statement and she knew that his opinion of himself had never changed. But how could he not have seen that he was…had not been….had not been a bad man? She gulped desperately and tried to calm down. "Tristan," she whispered loudly. "Tristan, Tristan, Tristan…."

***

"_Listen," he murmured and she listened. At first she didn't hear anything, but then, after a while, when she listened longer to the quiet murmur of the stream, the birdsong and the hushed rustle of the leaves, then she heard it._

_A quiet melody, played with the instrument of nature._

"_The sound of silence," Tristan whispered and even his voice was woven into that complex-built melody, that ever-changing tune in the air._

_Then, when Isolde turned to him and saw the sky reflected in the depths of his amber eyes, she began to understand. To understand Tristan. It was as if she had caught a glimpse of the man behind the composed mask._

"We filled the silence with sound, didn't we Tristan?" The lone woman on the solitary rock closed her eyes painfully. "We filled it with sound." She kept her eyes closed as she almost felt the touch of ghost fingers on her cheeks…

_The finger wandered over to her cheek and again blood rushed to her face._

_When he saw her blush, he laughed again, the second time that day. Isolde loved his laugh. It was deep and genuine, from deep in his chest._

_The finger returned to her lips and she seized the opportunity, using his momentary distraction to lean in and kiss him. Finally._

_The kiss was a chaste one, at first, and for a horrible, long moment, she thought, that he would push her away. But finally he pulled her closer. Passion burning in her, she deepened the kiss._

_They broke apart finally, both of them gasping for air._

_Then the next tidal wave followed and both of them got lost in the raging fire once again._

_Isolde had completely lost all feeling for time and space, when she finally broke away and fell in the grass next to him. Again, they didn't speak. No words were needed and even if they had spoken, they couldn't have found the words for what had passed between them only moments ago. Isolde was drowsy, his body warmth so close to her lulled her into a light slumber._

And oh- how warm his lips had been! How wonderful that kiss had felt. She touched her lips and remembered the raging fire in the pit of her stomach that had made her weak in the knees, remembered the plain longing in the dark depths of his eyes and her desire to give in…The shriek of a seagull made her abruptly look up and as she gazed up at it, its feathers transformed in darker feathers and finally into a hawk that came to land on a man's shoulder.

_Isolde couldn't do anything but admire the hawk now perched on his shoulder. Her feathers were a dark brown with little white spots and her eyes where sharp and clear. Tristan pet her head, when she began to move anxiously around and she was calm once again._

_Isolde walked bravely over to him and said softly, after clearing her throat in an attempt to swallow her fear of being rejected again: "'Tis a beautiful hawk. What's her name?"_

_He looked at her stoically for a second and she feared that she might not get an answer. "She doesn't have one, but normally I like to think of her name as ´Freedom."_

Tristan's hawk had not been seen again after they had buried him. She wondered whether she had sought her freedom elsewhere and felt almost envious; it occurred to her that she would have very much liked to ask the hawk how she handled her freedom. A freedom in a world where he wasn't alive. She wondered whether the hawk would know the answer.

***

"_The last member of my family had to die because I wasn't paying attention!" he suddenly yelled loudly, a rare occurrence for the silent scout._

"_Hush," Isolde soothed him as one would sooth a wild creature and pulled him closer._

_He didn't resist, but to her surprise, she found him trembling slightly, which was as close as Tristan could ever come to breaking down._

_For a moment she felt almost afraid of the amount of trust he was putting into her by showing her him at his most vulnerable, but then her hands mechanically started to stroke his back in a soothing motion._

"_No man is an island, Tristan," she told him softly. He made a small, anguished sound and she didn't let go._

"Tristan?" The woman on the rock called out softly. "I need you. Please, come back to me." But he did not and she dug her fingers violently in the rough surface of the rock when she realised that he was never coming back to her and the comfort of his arms would forever be denied to her. Now she needed to be consoled and he was not there.

"_This is how I love you, my Tristan," she said softly and lifted the finger to her own lips, pressing a kiss on it. She returned the finger to his lips and sealed his questioning look with a light touch._

_She explored his face like a mountain would be explored, starting with his high cheekbones, following those mountain ridges onto his nose, a hillock amidst plains of wide brown desert. Thick dark eyebrows, elegant like the feathers of a bird of war. Amber eyes, quick and intelligent and there: a forehead with deep creases in it; streams that were meant to be crossed with careful consideration. His lips, wide and deftly-swung like the smooth stones down in a cool river. And his beard: moss on jagged rocks._

_He caught her finger finally and stared at her indecipherably for a long moment._

_Then, finally, a long shuddering sigh trembled through his body, the scent of spring after a particularly long winter. He bent his head down and buried it in her hair, holding her close to his body. She inhaled his scent of leather and sweat and felt his breaths hit the base of her neck._

She felt her heart start to beat faster when the images of that last happy night faded away and were replaced by more recent ones. However, she forced herself to remember, she had to.

_One last kiss and a breathless "I love you," and he was astride, Sarmatian armour proudly gleaming in a sudden sun ray._

"I love you," the woman whispered in the wind. "I love you, I love you…."

And when dawn slowly rose up from the East, the woman was still sitting there.

* * *

Several days later, the rider came so suddenly out of the fog that Isolde wondered from her place on her rock, where she was overlooking the whole bay, whether he was figment of her imagination, or worse, a sprite.

But the sun came out, too, and it was soon apparent that this man was no ghost. And with a sharp sting in her heart, Isolde realised that she knew the rider.

Percival.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *


	45. Always A New Sunrise

_Author's note at the end of the chapter._

* * *

**45. Always A New Sunrise  
**

*****  
**

The light of the fireplace cast flickering shadows on Percival's face. He appeared to be deep in thought and Isolde studied him secretly. His face was gaunter than she remembered and his eyes were dark and shadowed. Much of the wise and temperate man of her memories seemed to have disappeared.

"You have changed," Isolde remarked softly, effectively breaking the silence.

Surprised, Branwaine gazed at her from her place next to Isolde. She felt almost as though she was an involuntary spectator of a scene that wasn't meant to be seen by anyone else. Uncomfortable she shifted and shot Percival a quick sideways glance from underneath her pale braids.

Percival finally laughed hollowly. "So have you," he accused bitterly. "The Isolde I remember wouldn't have stolen away like a thief in the middle of the night."

Isolde flinched in face of his angry accusations and turned her face away. She realised that there was nothing she could say in her defence and even if there had been something, she wouldn't have been able to uphold it in face of his righteous anger. So she allowed his rage to wash over her completely and then spoke in a soft hoarse whisper that even she did not recognise as her own voice:

"I had to leave."

Percival looked up and then his dark eyes studied her face quietly. A slight tremor that ran through his form told Isolde that he must have seen the twisted emptiness that threatened to overwhelm her these days.

"You really loved him very much, didn't you, my friend?" His voice was sad and it held the trace of the same accent that she missed so fiercely, thus Isolde had to compose herself quickly so he wouldn't see her reaction.

"More than I can say," Isolde admitted honestly and her words seemed to be insufficient, unable to encompass all that her Tristan had meant to her. And even as she thought about it, she couldn't put it in words and was once again reminded that she was all alone in the world without his fierce protectiveness or his gentle arms. How was she supposed to face so much emptiness? No reply was forthcoming and everything inside her heart was dead and cold.

"How did you know where to find us?" Branwaine's soft voice asked finally.

"Don't ask me." Percival's voice was still taut. "I did not tell Arthur, do not worry," he added quietly and then he was silent for a long time.

***

"So what happened to you, Percival?" Isolde asked eventually.

Percival seemed to shiver, and when he spoke, his voice was nothing but desolate.

"I looked for the reasons for live itself, for good and bad, for darkness and light...I travelled to the far ends of our world and back, but all that I found were more questions and more answers they asked for. And I travelled farther and farther to look for the answers, but all that I found were other questions." Percival's voice had become very soft and he stared into the flames.

"And in the end," he continued bleakly, "all came down to me being a human and nothing but a mere human. I returned to Arthur...with no answers."  
He shook his head, long hair swinging softly in golden circles.

"Maybe," Isolde stated finally wearily, "we are all irrevocably damaged, Percival. Old and drained beyond our years."

Percival looked at her flatly. "You are not old," he said tiredly. Isolde fingered the one greying strand in her hair that had, much to her numb horror, appeared some weeks ago.

"I am older than my grandmother has ever been," she said indifferently and maybe with just a hint of defiance. Defiance because he came here and challenged that last thing she had and that last thing she clung to with despair; her grief.

Percival, oblivious to her musings, got up and paced up and down. Finally he opened the door to star-spangled solitude and a dark gurgling sea and looked out. Isolde saw that his shoulders sagged slightly.

"We are all our own kind of broken, aren't we, Isolde?" She knew that he desired no answer.

"Our own kind of broken..." With something that might have been a laugh, or maybe a sob, he walked out. The door swung softly shut behind him.

Isolde took a look at Branwaine, and then she followed him.

***

It wasn't difficult to find Percival. He stood some metres away and looked at the dark roaring sea.

"Percival," Isolde said quietly.

He looked up, as his movements in the dark told her.

"Isolde," he acknowledged her quietly. Isolde stood next to him and looked in the darkness for a while, trying to fathom what he was seeing. A cold wind blew and made her shiver.

"What is to become of us, Isolde?" Percival asked softly.

Isolde was silent. Then she said: "I imagine we will be forgotten. No one will know of us. We will fade away...like the pale lines of dawn, when the morning comes. But there will be other times...and other people will stand here and look at the sea, and ponder the meaning of life."

Percival laughed hoarsely and Isolde wondered why he was that amused.

"So you don't mind?"

"What do you mean?"

"Dying," Percival said and all amusement had disappeared from his voice. Isolde stroked her belly, and with a new-found calm she replied:  
"No."

"Why not?" Percival sounded desperate.

"Because," Isolde answered with an air of finality, "someone told me that he'd be waiting for me and we would be together forever."

"Tristan?" Percival guessed. Not waiting for a reply, he continued: "But how can you be sure of it?"

"Because he said so." Isolde turned slightly away from him. "We all need something to believe in, don't we?"

"I guess so," Percival replied and his voice was tinged with that familiar hard accent. Then, suddenly, he bent down and kissed her. Isolde gasped, as his dry lips found hers. Kissing Percival was much more different than kissing Tristan had ever been. It didn't feel right and she tasted his brokenness on her lips, salty and bitter.

Isolde broke away finally and Percival turned away. They both knew that it had meant nothing.

"I am sorry."

Isolde shook her head. "Don't be."

"Tristan would have killed me."

Isolde eyed him indifferently. "Probably."

"I don't know what I was thinking."

"Maybe," Isolde said softly, "you thought of two broken halves of two different stones."

Percival's reply was soft. "Maybe I did." He caught her hand. "Farewell, Isolde."

Isolde let his hand go. "Farewell, Percival."

He walked back to the cottage and Isolde knew that she would never see him again.

***

The next day, Percival departed. Isolde watched his broad back as he swung in the saddle and thought of the roll of parchment that was securely tucked under his belt.

Isolde knew what it said as it were her own words written down in Percival's flowing script.

"I, Isolde, send you greetings, Arthur. Our world is ever in change, and as the world changes, so the people. A new sunrise came for me, and its sun rays were too glaring to withstand it. I know that my actions were those of a coward, yet I hope that you will forgive me. Your god tells you of another world as do my gods and thus I know that we will be reunited one day, in another world, where there is neither bloodshed nor tears. Please give my greetings to Bors, Galahad, Gawain and to Vanora. Do not remember as an unlucky woman broken by the mill wheel of destiny, Arthur, as I believe that those were once my words. Just remember me- Isolde. I do not know what this life will hold for me, but I will embrace whatever comes with open arms. I wish that your reign will be long and that your country will prosper. Do not seek me, Arthur, just wish me luck, as I wish you luck- Farewell, my friend."

Percival disappeared in the morning mist just as the last word of her message echoed in Isolde's head.

* * *

From then on, the days seemed to pass quicker. Isolde could feel the life kicking inside of her and ever so often she stroked her belly and dreamed of her child.

However, the dizziness came back more often and one day, as she found herself lying once again on the narrow cot where her ever-helpful friend must have put her. That very friend was now sitting in front of her, looking at her with clear worry in her eyes.

"What happened?" Isolde asked with a groan and sat up painstakingly. Her head hurt with a dull, constant throb.

"You fell," Branwaine sighed. Isolde looked around. The daylight danced in the dusty corners of the cottage and transformed the simple interior of the cottage to a magic place where the sprites and fairies of Isolde's childhood seemed to live.

"Look, Brana," she laughed in delight, "the sun has come out!"

Branwaine, who could barely hide her amazement and joy at her friend's unexpected glee about so ordinary a sight, smiled. "It has, Isolde."

"I would like to go outside, Branwaine," Isolde requested softly and the pale-haired young woman was quick to help her friend. Outside, the midday sun charmed sparks onto the rash waves and the cries of the seagulls ceaselessly filled the sky.

Isolde turned her face into the sun and reflected about all that the sun had ever meant to her. She remembered how it had hurt her eyes when she had first escaped from Marcellus Aurelius's prison, how good it had felt when she had been to the little lake with Tristan on one of their ventures and how much it served to keep her from remembering the moon-glossed silence, which was always full of memories, now.

***

"Isolde?" Isolde opened her eyes and looked at Branwaine.  
Her friend looked uneasy.

"Yes?"

"You said a few days ago to Percival that you aren't afraid to die." Branwaine spoke hastily and added: "I am sorry for I overhead your talk."

Isolde still looked at her, waiting.

Visibly upset, Branwaine spoke again: "You aren't afraid of dying, but are you afraid of living?"

She held Isolde's gaze for a moment and then she added quietly:  
"Isa- do you- do you wish to die?"

Did she wish to die? Was she afraid of life?

Isolde considered the questions carefully and walked on to the shoreline- she watched as the waves gently lapped at her bare feet and withdrew to make room for a new wave.

Did she wish to die? Isolde thought about all that life meant to her- vivacious sunsets and the feel of soft moss under her feet- laughing along with Vanora and Branwaine- sitting with the knights in the ale-soaked atmosphere of the tavern- listening to the sound of crickets and mosquitoes while lying alone on her narrow cot back home in Gaul...Did she wish to die?

"No," she mumbled truthfully. "No, I don't."

Was she afraid of life? She thought of empty hallways and silent rooms- so much, too much silence for her to bear. A life without Tristan- hadn't she led it before? She had lived before she had encountered him, too, hadn't she ? But try as she might, she could only remember an ominous, almost tangible silence that had hung between her father and her for every year of her life...Gaul had been her home, of course it had been or still was...but her memories of it were filled with that silence. She had always hated silence....and Tristan had been the first one to show her the beauty of it. And now he was gone. Was she afraid of the silence coming back? Yes. Was she afraid of life?

"Yes, " Isolde breathed at last honestly, "Yes, I am."

Branwaine had watched her warily and raised her head, when Isolde turned around to look at her.

"No...And yes."

* * *

"Why are you laughing?" A few days later Branwaine came up behind Isolde and watched concernedly how her friend stared at two pieces of driftwood that were lying on the shore. Their deadened white structures were tightly entangled.

Isolde stopped her soft, almost hysterical laughter and bent down to pick them up. Thoughtfully she stroked over the deadened white structures. Her touch was tender, almost as if she were touching a lover. Branwaine held her breath and stared at her, trying to keep the worry out of her expression.

"Just imagine, Brana," Isolde said softly, "They were once part of a healthy tree before they got tossed into that merciless sea."

She raised her hand and threw the pieces of driftwood back into the sea. They both watched for long moments how they got smaller and smaller in the distance and finally blended in with the grey sea.

Then Branwaine broke the silence.  
"Why did you throw them back?"

Isolde raised her eyes and thought to see small flashes of white on their way to the horizon. She smiled sadly. "I am holding onto hope. Maybe, just maybe they will reach the shore where they came from and maybe they will find their peace."

* * *

One day, Isolde woke up once again from that blackness that assaulted her senses more often these days. The life inside of her thrummed steadily and was more vibrant than usual, it seemed.

"Brana?" The scene and the question held an uncanny familiarity and Isolde took a moment to muse on that, when her whole body was wracked by a violent bout of coughing. She clutched the thin blanket to her body and tried to contain the coughs, but to no avail. Slowly, she lowered the blanket. It came away bloody.

***

White morning mists still enveloped the countryside, as Isolde stepped out from the cottage that had become close to a home in the last few months. After she had discovered the blood on the blanket, she had taken it outside to wash it out. Branwaine hadn't been present and there was no need to worry her.

Stepping forward, Isolde deeply inhaled the fresh morning air that brought salty greetings from other countries, just beyond the horizon. The seagulls greeted her with a shrill cacophony of sounds and she smiled, as she took some further, hesitant steps in the direction of the sea.

Still smiling, she carefully sat down on the cold ground and looked out over the sea. When she leaned forward, the silver pendant that Tristan had once given to her dangled from her neck and she gently unfastened it to look at it. The silver horses seemed to have a life of their own, proudly gleaming in the sunlight and Isolde imagined them storming across a sea of grass...in another life, another time and in a faraway country. Sarmatia...She would have liked to see it.

She sighed. So many regrets, so many wishes lost. There was so much she still would have liked to do with Tristan at her side.

The morning sun rose now, in the East, and Isolde turned her face to it, revelling in the faint warmth. She stretched her hands out, farther and farther, believed that she would get it if she only reached far enough. "What a wondrous new day," she sighed and took a moment to reflect on the endless continuity of it all; a new day, a new life, while old lives ended and the old day had long since disappeared. Red sun rays were cast over the land while black birds filled the air with their morning cries.

A crow rose with a loud croak from a rock next to Isolde and she watched how it sailed out towards the new day.

"How wonderful life is," she breathed in the sunrise and her smile was one filled with peace. Everything in her felt suddenly peaceful...the numbness that Tristan's death had left inside of her had made way for a new-found calm; the sea on a still day.

She laughed in lone delight and stretched once again her hands out to the sun...but abruptly stilled in the motion. Something was terribly, terribly wrong and it started as a tearing pain in her stomach, moved on to take over her spine and veiled her eyes with blackness. She felt weak and her heart raced like the hoofbeats of a quick horse.

"Branwaine!"she shouted and gasped for air. "Brana..." Then she couldn't speak anymore as the black darkness descended on her.

* * *

"Push!" A voice commanded loudly out of the blackness that enveloped her. "Push !"

Everything was such a jumble of sweat and trembling and because the blackness tore at her very being, she obeyed the voice.

"You can do it!" the voice encouraged. "Yes!"

And time passed: were it moments, were it days? She didn't know, couldn't have said, couldn't have even asked for her voice didn't obey her, when she tried to speak.

Voices, murmurs: "There is so much blood..." Blood? Who was hurt? I am a healer, she tried to say, I am a healer, let me help! Who was hurt? Was it Branwaine? Branwaine was hurt while she was lying here, doing nothing!

"Careful, don't move," a voice admonished and Isolde gasped weakly. Another sharp spasm of pain coursed through her and she screamed, but suddenly her scream was drowned out by a new scream. A baby's scream.

Isolde smiled through her tears and sweat. She had done it. Suddenly she felt nothing short of exhausted and wanted to rest. Gradually, the grey mist in front of her eyes cleared and she saw the most beautiful sight she had ever laid eyes upon. There it was, her baby, and she smiled at its red, small form with more love in her heart than she would have ever thought possible. Her heart seemed to overflow and burst with that love and she wished nothing more than to tell that to that small life in Branwaine's arms.

"May- may I hold him?"

Branwaine smiled at her tearfully and Isolde wondered distantly why her friend was so upset. All was well, was it not? She felt curiously light-headed as she reached out to take the baby from Branwaine's arms. Even that small action seemed to cost so much energy.

"It is a boy," Branwaine murmured gently.

"My baby boy," Isolde cooed softly to the child in her arms. "Your father would have been proud of you," she told him quietly and looked full of wonder at this little miracle in her arms. He was silent now, the little arms resting at his sides.

"Lionel." The word seemed to have come from deep within her, and even saying that word cost so much energy now, that the light seemed to fade. "His name shall be Lionel for it is a valiant name for one whose deeds shall be valiant."

"Yes, Isa." Tears shone in Branwaine's eyes and Isolde focused on her friend. It was so hard to see her in the ever-dimming light.

***

"Brana-Brana- is it evening?"

Branwaine didn't answer, instead her hands flew to her face and loud sobs escaped her. Isolde gasped weakly. Breathing was getting difficult. And suddenly she understood- the blood had been hers.

"Brana-Brana," she whispered. Lionel on her heart was a silent weight, and his weight was like a stone now as she realised that she would never get to be a mother. "Brana, Brana," she whispered again, "am I dying?"

No reply was forthcoming as Branwaine once again started to sob.

"I am dying..."

"Dying," she repeated mechanically. "Dying..."

And then, when she started to comprehend the meaning of her own words, Lionel started moving around. She focussed on him with some difficulty and saw how his little fist curled up as he slept obliviously on her chest. And if—if she didn't- didn't get to be his mother...if...if...

A quiet sob escaped her, but she knew that she had to be strong now. She had to stay strong for her little boy.

"Brana..." Branwaine raised her head and Isolde looked at her intently, gathering all her remaining strength. "Promise me, Brana, that you will look after him."

Desperation made her dig her nails into Branwaine's arm. Her friend winced but she didn't let go.

"Promise me, please, that you will raise him as if he were of your blood. Do not raise him at Arthur's court. Keep him – keep him away from all that bloodshed. Raise him to be a honest and caring man, and if it should once be his will to become a knight, then let him, but only if his decision was a firm one. And then...then tell him about his parents. Please, my friend. Please."

Branwaine could only nod as Isolde fell back on her cot. The long speech had drained her and Branwaine watched helplessly as her arms fell limply back at her sides and she slipped once again into unconsciousness. Branwaine took Lionel from her friend's limp arms and rocked him softly in her arms. Such a tiny little life and he seemed as vulnerable as the light of a candle.

"Ay, my little one," she cooed softly. "Ay, ay,ay..."

Finally, she sat down next to Isolde and looked her friend, lost in silent musings.

"The child will need a surrogate mother," Aithne's voice said softly from her left. "A woman who can feed it for the first weeks. I will go and see if I can find somebody."

Branwaine nodded, even though she felt like crying. A surrogate mother..."Oh, Isolde," she mumbled and listened to her friend's laboured breathing. "Oh, Isolde...."

And every breath felt like a memory of a life spent at her friend's side. Pictures of happier days passed her like quick lightning bolts in a swift thunder-storm and she lost herself in them, as she was lost herself. Aithne paused at the doorway and looked back into the cottage. The figures seemed like relicts of earlier times there in the blue half-light, already lost on the way to another world.

Aithne shuddered and quickly departed.

***

It was late in the afternoon when Isolde woke again. Branwaine saw how she opened her eyes and bent over her quickly.

"Lionel?" The faint question barely reached Branwaine's ears, but she was quick to reply: "He is sleeping."

Isolde smiled, a faint, faint smile that was so fleeting that Branwaine wondered whether she had imagined it. Her friend was fading away like the last lilac flowers of autumn and there was nothing she could do.

"Tell my boy that I love him," Isolde whispered now and it struck Branwaine just how much her friend was like a wisp of cloud in the sky and she, Branwaine, was doomed to remain on earth and to look after her, as she flew away.

No....She had to keep her on earth. She would not let Isolde fly away.

And with that sort of desperation she finally asked imploringly: "Remember that day, when we were at the beach?"

Isolde gasped weakly, her dark hair sticking to her sweaty skin. She was so frail in Branwaine's arms and she tightened her grip, fearing that Isolde could be blown away by a passing gust of air.

"Remember- you sat on that stone and your hair was flying in the wind. You looked over the sea and you said that once you'd marry a man from Britannia."

The only sound in the room was a faint moan coming from Isolde.

Branwaine smoothed the dark hair out of her friend's face.

"And remember- when you sat on that tree and didn't want to come down?" Branwaine's face twisted at the memory. Her blue eyes held a faraway look.

"You said, that you knew, you could fly, if you only tried to. My mother tried to persuade you to come down, but you didn't want to. You said that you wanted to fly."

Isolde chuckled weakly, a faint sound. Another spasm of pain gripped her and her body arched up in Branwaine's arms.

Branwaine slowly choked on her tears. "You jumped," she whispered, stroking Isolde's cheek tenderly. "I still remember how you fell from that tree. You were but a white shape, a bird caught up in winds too strong for it."

A single tear ran down her nose and dripped on Isolde's hair.

"Why do you always try to fly from heights that are impossible to master?" Branwaine choked.

Isolde's expression was wistful, as if she was caught in a never-ending dream.

"Please…" Her voice was so quiet, that Branwaine had to bend down to understand her.

"I want -- to --see it...the sea..."

Branwaine held her gently up, so she could see the stormy sea outside through the open door.

"It's just the sea, dearest Isa," she mumbled quietly.

A wonderful smile appeared on Isolde's face. "No," she mumbled hoarsely.

"A promise--- it is--- glittering-- in the--- dis--tance…"

Branwaine looked at the horizon, at the stormy sea, but all that she could see were the wind, the waves, the circling seagulls. Their cries hurt her ears.

She turned back to Isolde. The look in the green eyes was frozen, a soft smile fixed forever on her pale, delicate face. The sky was reflected in her eyes.

Branwaine understood.

Isolde was gone.

Outside, the day ended in a fiery sunset.

* * *

She was a sliver of fog, a passing cloud, a swift rain shower. She was a grain of dust, a sandstorm, a dry desert. She was a mere thought, the memory of a lifetime, the collective consciousness.

She was a sunbeam, lost in the idling of a sunny day. She was a water droplet, passing through white-foaming water rapids until the river reached the sea.

She floated through darkness and through light- danced through fire and water.

Her name was of no importance. Her whole being was of no importance as she heard the grass-blades grow and the quiet winds sigh in a curious symphony of silence.

The sound of silence, made by all those things, finally took her away to another country, a sea of grass-blades with an ever-blowing wind.

Pebbles murmured silent nothings to stones, stones touched the flanks of rocks and a thought grew to an idea and finally took shape in amber eyes and dark, shaggy hair.

A face, a name, a person. And Isolde remembered.

"Tristan! Tristan!" The winds swirled with glee and the idea, the thought that was him smirked, an infamous dry smirk, and then a wide, earnest smile of joy spread on his face.

"Isolde."

The people of the grasslands looked outside.

"A summer storm is coming," they said, but the words of the village elder were far more cryptic: "No," she said, "two halves of a whole have finally found together, without the boundaries of time and space."

The summer storm approached the distant horizon and faded away, but the scent of fresh rain lingered to the morning light of the following day.

* * *

***

_Tissues are of course, always available if they should be needed. But I do hope, that while this chapter was undoubtedly sad, you have a little smile on your face after the end. It is a happy end, as I said. Yes, I know, I killed her too...(and it feels weird to let go of dear Isolde as I have become quite fond of her)...and I am sorry, really, but this was also always intended and I hope that you like it nonetheless. I tried my best with this chapter, that is why the update is today and not yesterday, as I said. Sorry about that, but I decided that it was more important to present a good chapter to you instead of updating it, when it was only half-finished._

_That having been said, I would like to thank **Lairiel, gymgurl and Irish Maid! **Thank you, and of course also thank those of you, who accompany the story as silent readers...of course it would be great if you left a review, but I truly do appreciate the fact, that you are here and spend so much time on reading my story. It means a lot to me, and I am happy to see you (reader traffic feature (=) following the story chapter for chapter. You're great. _

_Now we only have the epilogue. It is nearly finished and you can expect it either tomorrow or the day after tomorrow._

_Thank you._

_-Sachita (=  
_

* * *


	46. Epilogue

_Author's note at the bottom of the page._

* * *

**Epilogue**

*******

**_18 years later…_**

The years had left wide grey strands in the former fiery hair of the woman. She slowly got up from her crouched position, which seemed to strain her a lot.

"Mother." The light voice belonged to a young woman with her mother's fiery hair and wide brown eyes. The old woman looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "What's it, my dear?"

"Those birches." She pointed to two of the aforementioned trees, which swayed placidly along with a soft breeze. "Who planted them?"

"Actually," her mother said with a gentle smile, "I am surprised that ye didn't ask me that before." She straightened to her full height and looked over the green mounds that surrounded the pair. Green mounds, every one of them completed with a sword sticking in it. For that was what it was: the last resting place for those valiant knights who had given their life for an Empire that had once been great but was now much like those mounds: slowly fading back to the original state. Nature reclaimed those mounds just like anarchy reclaimed what had before been a proud Empire.

But normally it was not her way to entertain such philosophical thoughts; that had always been the way of one her truest and best friends and the woman's smile faded as she thought about her.

"Mother?" The young woman prompted.

"It was me who planted them, child," she replied finally with a sudden sort of weariness as it hit her just how many years had passed. They had left her older, wearier, but also with a certain sort of distinct indifference; it was rare that anything left her impressed these days.

"I have planted them for a very good friend of mine," she continued softly, lost in the memories of long-gone summer days and a black-haired young woman. "For her and Tristan. I am not sure if ye remember him, dearie, ye were quite young back then."

"'Course I do, Ma. The scout."

"Aye, dear, the scout." Vanora frowned; it seemed insufficient to refer to Tristan as just the scout. He had intimidated her with his cold, unapproachable demeanour for long years, yes, but still he had been one of the knights and to know that he loved her friend had been enough for her.  
"Those days are long gone.." she mumbled sadly, half to herself and looked at the two birches. They had grown fast and had, to Vanora's surprise, become tightly entangled with branches and leaves only a year after she'd planted them.

"I planted them mostly for her, though. Isolde. She told me that she loved them…" Vanora trailed off and saw that her daughter was not listening. She smiled fleetingly. Ah, the rashness of youth….

***

"Ma," her daughter called out suddenly and Vanora realised that she had been lost in thought once again. She looked over to her daughter, who was standing some metres away, whilst shading her eyes against the sun.  
"What is it?" she called back.

"A rider is coming."

Vanora frowned. "And what is so special about this rider, dearie?"

"I am not sure," her daughter replied. Vanora looked over where she was standing with a certain sort of pride. Aye, her daughter had become a lovely young woman and once a young man would be very grateful for her.

"Ma, there is somethin' about that rider. I think we should head back to the fort."

Vanora nodded and followed her daughter down the narrow path. She looked back to the birches- a slight breeze had come up and they swayed along placidly. Vanora smiled.

* * *

Arthur shaded his eyes against the sun, as he looked at the rider, who was waiting for him in the courtyard. The sun painted a reddish halo around the still figure.

"He has been waiting for you for hours, he has," Jols informed Arthur with a low voice. "A patient one that is. Refused to wait for you anywhere else, he did."

Arthur nodded. Patience- not only a virtue, but often vital for a knight's survival. He watched as Jols bade the young man to enter, then returned to the Room of The Round Table- as it had been christened years ago for a lack of a better name- only to find Bors, Gawain and Galahad engrossed in the study of a crudely-drawn map.

"Knights," he said and they looked up. Gawain looked faintly exasperated when he interpreted Arthur's expression. "Oh no," he groaned, "not another one."

"Another'un of what?" Bors looked confused, as did Galahad. Gawain made an annoyed motion. "Just wait," he grumbled, "you will see soon enough." Arthur's amused sideways glance told him that he had been right.

***

And when the young rider appeared in the doorway, Bors and Galahad, just in the middle of a simultaneous groan, abruptly grew silent.

Gawain slowly raised his eyes and very nearly gasped, as he looked into the eyes of the rider. Green eyes, softer than moss and deeper than ocean waters- "Isolde," he whispered grief-stricken.

The word had been quiet, but the rider's eyes focused on him immediately. Gawain almost flinched under the familiar and yet so different intensity of that green gaze. The rider was a young man with dark hair and a tall, lithe frame who would have seemed, if able-bodied, quite ordinary if not for those eyes. Her eyes.

"Greetings, King Arthur and his knight," the young man said. He had a quiet voice that was not made for shouting, yet there was no need for the young man emanated a silent sort of control, one that Gawain had rarely encountered before.

Arthur's reflections must have been along the same lines. He appeared slightly bewildered, as he finally asked: "What do you wish, young man?"

"I would like to become a knight at your round table." A usual enough request, but Gawain flinched truly this time, when the rider inclined his head slightly. He had dark, shaggy hair that just barely brushed his shoulders, and it reminded Gawain of something, someone…

The idea that seemed to take shape in their minds, apparently reached Arthur's mind too. He appeared stunned. "Who are you?"

Green eyes smiled. "Lionel, Sire, son of Isolde."

An audible hush fell over the room and the young man's gaze wandered over the assembled people, brushed over Vanora and one of her daughters, who had appeared in the doorway and finally returned to Arthur.

***

The ageing King had braced himself with his hands on the tabletop. Finally, the question which could not be held back, swapped over his lips and drowned the whole room in immediate awareness and anticipation.

"Who was your father?"

A pause, then a serious look. Finally Lionel smiled briefly.

"His name was Tristan."

Outside, two birches swayed knowingly along to a tune in the leaves and the waters, which was as old as life itself. And once, a dark-haired man had told a dark-haired young woman what it was called, in a land with wind-blown birches and grainy beaches: The Sound of Silence.

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**The End**

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**_Um...yes. That's it. Oh God, that's scary. I almost feel as if I have to say good-bye to an old friend. Four years- it was four years ago, when I first started this story. Weird. _

_But at first, I'd like to thank you, my wonderful readers. I truly, truly appreciated all of your reviews- they made a lot of awful school weeks much better- and of course I still appreciate them! All of you, who have ever read this story or left me a review: Thank you!!! From the first chapter on, I have had a lot of support- then readers went away, but others came- I am so grateful for your continuous support! And of course a "Thank you!" to you, my silent readers!  
_

_Thank you, **gymgurl, Rhysel** and **Stickelbatz** (well well hi there^^) for your awesome (I can't help myself, I really like this word^^) reviews!!!_

_And I'd like to mention all of you who have reviewed this story- **Priestess of the Myrmidon (thank you for your help!) ; HopelessRomantic44; Nebelelbin ; Jenni, darkdestiny2000; Hayley Jean; minorcadence; la argentinita; Randomisation; JessicaTheFair; Little Hobbit; dw; The silent reader; Kippling Croft; xXxDaiquirixXx; outsiderxponyboy; Rhysel; ILuvOdie; Lairiel; Queen Amy; CarolinaJuliette; RHP24; Rhanon Brodie; Lovebuggy; gymgurl; Irish Maid; sbuxhummingbird; anarane2; Erin **and **Stickelbatz**- THANK YOU! _

_So...I guess that's it. I can't stop writing XD. I hope we will "meet" each other again, and maybe in a King Arthur story, who knows? (= I hope you enjoyed reading this story as I did enjoy writing it._

_All the best!_

_-Sachita (-;_

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